


gasoline unicorns

by MalMao, mentalstrainatdawn



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Background Relationships, But Not Graphic Depictions, Depictions of Cole's Death, Depressed Hank Anderson, Emotional Manipulation, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Cole's death, Not 'All Human' tho?, Rating May Change, Science Fiction Elements, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Connor (Detroit: Become Human), just not between Connor and Hank, mostly human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-07-07 22:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 93,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15917286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMao/pseuds/MalMao, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentalstrainatdawn/pseuds/mentalstrainatdawn
Summary: Meet Hank Anderson: senior, nearly eighteen, a walking disaster. The final year of high school is meant to be the home stretch, but for Hank it feels like a full sprint to catch up on all the time that he spent self-destructing. Not to mention keeping it from happening again.Enter Connor Stern: awkward, cute,definitelyhiding something. Really, though, how bad could it be?Famous last words..Aka, the High School AU that no one asked for but every ship needs. Just with a twist.





	1. Part I, August 17th 2028 (Hank)

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes going it:
> 
> 1) All members of the DPD (as well as Sumo) are intentionally not included. We have some ideas for a follow-up to this should the stars align so those characters have been set aside for that possibility. We didn't forget them lol. We just may be using them for a little something else. 
> 
> 2) Androids work a little differently than in canon in ways that will be explained at different points in the story. For now, yes we know that a commercial Chloe is an ST200 and that the predecessors seen in the DPD/Stratford Tower are ST300s. In this version, they're both just different skins for an ST200 as their internal workings are the same. 
> 
> 3) Some background relationships that ~~may~~ will appear:  
>  • Markus x Simon (Bc how could we not.)  
> • North x Josh (Just in a very...teenage way; it's less 'OTP!!' and more 'two teens fucking around due to proximity who will inevitably break up since they argue c o n s t a n t l y and we all just hope the blow-back isn't too terrible'.)  
> • ~~Possible hints of Luther x Kara as well? Depending on how much they show up?~~ (It is uncertain at the point of editing this—after posting Chapter 6—if Kara and Luther will appear at all in this fic. They may be left for possible future installments along with Sumo and the DPD.)  
>  • More may be added later, but that's all rn. 
> 
> 4) Lastly, for those who are not familiar with the American School system, a crash course! High school is the 9th to the 12th grade. 9th = Freshman, 10th = Sophomore, 11th = Junior, 12th = Senior.
> 
> .
> 
>  **Edit:** We have art! W H A T??  
> [ **doomcheese**](https://doomcheese.tumblr.com/) drew an A M A Z I N G artwork of bb!Hank from this fic, and god is it so perfect! See it [**here**](https://twitter.com/cheesecake_doom/status/1090325254566744073)!  
> [ **hookedonhank**](https://hookedonhank.tumblr.com/) drew bb!Connor as well and some Hank with Connor! Check out that ponytail!Hank sketch in the background [**here**](https://hookedonhank.tumblr.com/post/182429267235/i-couldnt-not-make-some-sketches-based-on)!

The sound is what comes roaring back to him first. A steady ringing in his ears that rounds out, fading until it’s just a faint underpinning that slices like a needle through the noise. Through a cacophony of sirens. Through voices and boots crunching shards into the pavement. Through rain pelting against the metal belly of his truck, wrong side up like a tortoise on his back.

_Tink...tink, tink._

Glittering glass is scattered across the asphalt, shimmering blue and red in the pools of water that fill potholes and worn tire depressions. Spinning light caught prismatic in their edges.

“—nderson’s boys—”

“—spun the wheel too hard. I didn’t—fuck—”

“—me the scissors! We need to cut him out—”  

All of it though, every last sound and ache and thought, tunnels down to that gasping from the backseat. The wet pull of air through blood. A sick, viscous, terrified sound that can’t be replicated by violent television or horror films. No matter how hard they try. Nothing can quite fabricate the primal urgency that forms in the pit of Hank’s stomach. It’s a noise that fucking haunts him.

“Hank...” Cole calls out, all sticky and distressed.

Don’t turn around. Don’t look.

_Tink, tink...tink._

“‘M scared...”

His voice is weaker now, still all broken up around tears. The sound of the rain pelting against the concrete changes and twists in Hank’s perception until all he can hear is static. Just static. Dead noise....

Don’t turn around. Don’t—

.

**August 17th, 2028**

Hank wakes with a familiar, gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. His phone is letting out a repetitive beeping as it vibrates across his nightstand. God, that sound is never so grating as first thing in the morning.

“Shuddup,” he grumbles as he stabs at the glass screen of his cell like it has any sort of consciousness of how it’s setting Hank’s teeth on edge. The nightmare settles in the back of his mind, curling up like some great cat. Satiated for the moment but ready to toy with him at the slightest inclination.

His head feels made of lead; his mouth tastes like shit.

It’s the first day of school and over a year since Cole’s death. Hank doesn’t want to get up. Would rather just close his stinging eyes and sink down into the mattress until he’s a part of the springs and the fabric and the cloth. He’d make a good mattress, he thinks. Might miss drinking, though. Burgers, too. Also weed. And, yeah, okay, sex is pretty cool.

He’s still talking himself out of fusing with the pillowtop when there are three loud raps on the door punctuated by his sister’s voice shouting through the wood. A long pause. His second alarm lights up his phone, and he has the distinct urge to throw the damn thing against the wall.

“You aren’t jerking off in here, are you?” Sally asks, her head poking into his room in defiance of his lack of response. She’s still in her pajamas with thick rimmed glasses covering a good fourth of her face and blonde hair all tied up away from her neck.

Hank gives her a withering look from where he’s lying on his stomach. “It’d be a little fucking late if I was, don’t ya think?”

“Don’t let Dad hear you talk like that.” She moves to stand at the side of his bed, reaching out to poke Hank right in the temple. Not hard but enough for Hank to feign her pressing his head down into the pillow. “Shouldn’t have gone drinking with your buddies last night.”

“Like I’m ever a bucket of sunshine.”

“Not lately,” Sally replies, her tone carrying a note of scolding—and, god, _pity_ —tossed like a wet blanket over Hank’s already soggy morning.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says sharply. Maybe meaner than he needs to be. “I need to get ready.”

The dismissal is clear enough, and she doesn’t argue. Just sighs and rolls her eyes like she does when he’s being a pain in the ass. “Whatever. Here’s some Excedrin for your head, asshole.”

She slaps the two, white tablets down onto his nightstand. Hank lets the pills rest while he changes, pounding them back with a day old glass of water only after he’s scrubbed his teeth and washed his face clean of left over sleepiness. He heads downstairs, looking every bit the nineties, grunge skater that his mother has teased him for on more than one occasion. He’s not entirely sure she means it as a compliment. It’s not like he has much of a personal reference. The most he knows of the 1990’s is what he’s seen in older movies. They seemed rather enamored with those bricks they called cell phones as far as he can tell. It’s like a totally different world.

There’s already a plate of food waiting at his place setting when he comes down the landing. Sally hasn't changed out of her pajamas, and her feet are up in her chair with a slice of turkey bacon in one hand as she reads something on her phone with the other.

He hesitates at the bottom of the steps, his eyes glancing over the table suspiciously.

Hank’s home is run by a nurse (his mom) and a cop (his dad), both high demand positions. His sister has chosen to take a break after graduating high school and doesn’t have work until the afternoon. All things considered, a fresh breakfast is an unusual sight for a Thursday morning. A preemptively conciliatory act and decidedly _not_ a good sign for him, despite the way it makes his stomach gurgle.

After a moment, Hank yields. He pulls out his chair and flops down, desperately ignoring the seat to his immediate left. Tucked in. Unneeded. Always a reminder as if he didn’t fucking have enough of those already.

“Morning, kiddo!” his mother’s voice announces loudly, heightening Hank’s awareness of his throbbing hangover. He keeps his reaction subdued as Liv Anderson appears from the laundry room beyond the kitchen. She’s putting her chestnut hair up in a ponytail, and there’s a pastel sweater slung over her shoulder. She has the Sanrio scrubs top on today like maybe she still thinks it’s 2010 or something.

Liv gravitates towards Hank and leans down for a gentle kiss on his temple. A customary gesture in the past but now the embrace causes Hank to tense. He knows his mother notices. Neither of them mention it.

“How did you sleep?”

“I got there eventually,” he answers. Hank takes a moment to glance down at his breakfast while Liv returns to her morning routine. She’s already down the hall, folding a sweater into her work bag before returning to the kitchen. In situations like these, some might call her the ‘Livia River’. Always moving. Always cutting a flowing path through whatever space she’s in. If there’s one thing that can get her to slow her course, though, it’s the coffee she’s currently making a beeline toward. Freshly brewed and poured into her favorite mug.

“Two eggs?” Hank cocks an eyebrow and pokes the yolks with his fork, still unsure whether to fall for such a manipulative yet delicious tactic. “Must be talking about something serious.”

“And _that’s_ my cue,” Sally speaks up, breaking her silence. Her feet fly off the chair like it’s on fire, only doubling back to grab her plate in a flurry. She’s never been one for subtlety. Or confrontation.

“Thanks, Sally.” Liv sounds more exasperated than grateful, but like everything in life it doesn’t deter her from the subject at hand. She focuses back on her youngest.

( _You didn’t used to be her youngest,_ a voice in the back of Hank’s head reminds him. _That’s new. That’s on you._ )

“Isn't it a bit early to have your guard up?”

“Come on, Mom,” Hank reasons. “You’d’ve had to wake up extra early just to make this. Something’s up.”

He takes a bite of his bacon, trying not to look his mother in the eye for too long. Liv works long hours, but she still stays sharp enough to detect signs of his late night activities. Years of hospital experience peppered with a solid intuition have helped her catch him and his sisters on more than one occasion. Sometimes Hank’s sure she has some sort of heat vision. Luckily, he seems to have gone under the radar for now.

“First day back to school,” she starts. Liv takes her usual spot opposite Hank, hands cupped around the warmth of her mug. “Figured the extra fuel might help.”

She sips her coffee as Hank’s father—a towering boy scout by the name of Wade—comes lumbering down the stairs. His work calloused hands adjust the tie to his uniform.

“I loved the first day of school after the summer break. Morning, Hank!” he greets, sweet as can be. Wade’s smile is warm and tired through his gold and silver beard. Ask him about it and he’d rub his chin with a proud grin, calling it preparation for the winter.

Liv is already on her feet, both hands working on the horrendous knot at Wade’s throat. Her coffee rests on the table.

“Of course you did,” she says with a grin and leans up to steal a quick kiss. She’s made peace with the beard, but she’s always the first to enjoy the shave come spring.

“I thought you weren’t going in till tonight.” It’s not that Hank isn’t used to seeing both parents during the morning shift at the Anderson house, but he knows what certain seasons can be like to their work hours. Wade—sap that he is—often joked about him and Liv being star crossed lovers. He hasn’t for a while, mind.

“I swapped shifts,” Wade tells him as he pours coffee into his own mug. Liv settles back into her seat. “Your mom and I just wanted to talk to you together. As a team.”

“Oh boy…” Suddenly Hank’s stomach feels too tight to continue eating. He’s been dreading this with each bite of that delicious, crunchy bacon.

“Now hear us out,” Liv interjects before Hank has a chance to hide entirely within himself. “It’s the start of a new year. A time for change. There _has_ to be a change, Hank. Principal Sibylle won’t give you any more chances.”

Liv’s words sting as she lets them linger in the air. Hank spent a good portion of the last year in a destructive spiral that ended much of the eleventh grade on a sour note. It’s amazing how much he could get away with when he had a splash of traumatic grief on his side.

“She helped us a lot last year,” Liv continues. “All she asks is that you stop by her office when you get there, okay? We gotta make this work if you’re going to have any options next year.”  

“She’s just going to make me feel bad for throwing away my ‘academic potential’. Or is it achievements? It changes with every pep talk,” Hank grumbles. It drives him crazy how their principal never yells. Never raises her voice. She hands out punishments as calmly as she listens. Hank knows he’s being unfair, but he isn’t looking forward to disappointing her all over again when he knows how deeply she cares.

“I’m sure something can be worked out but, Hank,” Wade interjects. He’s spent most of the conversations listening with a familiar, furrowed brow. His mug is mostly empty, but he still looks tired. “There has to be a dialogue.”

“Please don’t pull that negotiator shit—”

“Language,” Wade corrects.

“Sorry— _stuff_ on me, dad.”

“I thought you said I wasn't a negotiator.”

Wade takes pride in solving most of his cases through diplomacy. The running joke down at the precinct is that Officer Anderson could talk a perp into cuffing themselves. Hank never understood why he didn’t aim for a higher position. His dad’s too brilliant to be a beat cop.

“You know what I mean,” he replies. A bit glum.

“I do,” Wade concedes. He reaches for Hank’s hand where it’s resting on the table. Pats it twice before telling him, “You’ll do alright.”

He’s never been one to want to push a conversation too far. Always prefers to cut an exchange short rather than overextend it.

Liv looks vaguely exasperated as he takes his mug to the sink and pulls down a plate of his own. In grand opposition, she prefers to poke and scrape and prod until everyone’s nerves are shot. The sex-talk she’d given Hank had been an excruciating three hours long and included _diagrams_.

Granted, he’d learned a metric shit-ton more than most kids his age.

“Just,” Liv starts, quieter. “We’re all in this together. If you’re struggling again, you can talk to someone.”

Hank opens his mouth.

“Someone who _isn’t_ Pedro Aabdar or Gary Kayes,” she cuts him off. Pedro and Gary are nice guys when it comes down to it, but they are literally the _worst_ influences. Pedro spends all his money on gambling and weed; Gary barely scraped his way out of a drug charge over the summer and is well known to be a good source of alcohol for anyone underage who’s looking to party.

It would have been a smartass retort and _exactly_ what Hank had been gearing up to say. He has the decency to look at least a little rebuffed.

 _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say. _I’m sorry you lost a kid. I’m sorry that it’s my fault for not being a good enough driver. I’m sorry that I’m such a fuck up over it. I’m sorry that I’ve made it all about me and my bullshit problems. I’ll do better. I swear I can do better. I know you can’t lose both of us._

Hank clears his throat.

“So can I finish eating now or what?” he grumbles instead. Liv sighs, makes a comment about him wearing his helmet on that death machine that he calls a bike, and goes to collect some granola bars from the pantry for her work bag.

Hank cuts open the bubble of yolk at center of his eggs and lets the yellow spill out over the white. He’s not really hungry anymore if he’s being honest. Feels sick to his stomach with a measure of shame and what seems dangerously similar to nerves. Just the smell of his eggs is beginning to make him feel nauseous.

He eats every last bite.

.

The school bought an android for the office over the summer. It’s a Rachel model, a visual variant of the original Chloe that passed the Turing Test. Where Chloe is blonde and blue eyed, Rachel has a brunette ponytail and hazel gaze. Where Chloe is given an even complexion and elegant, smokey shadow on her lids, Rachel is clean faced with a generous sprinkling of freckles across the nose and cheeks.

Chloes have proven better at places with a hefty price tag and high thread count in their sheets.

Rachels are more well received in schools and movie theaters and pediatricians’ offices.

They are the only two androids in circulation. There was brief push for household models that Hank vaguely remembers happening a couple years back, but Cyberlife strayed too far from Elijah Kamski’s original design. The faces were too symmetrical, too clean, too perfect. They hit uncanny valley like a double decker bus going ninety miles an hour into a brick wall.

And so Cyberlife went quiet in that particular branch of development.

Other than that, Hank knows jack shit about ‘droids. They’re receptionists for the most part. This one peers up at him with a slightly glassy look in her eyes for a solid four seconds before something seems to click in her processor.

“Can I help you?” she asks, pleasantly. Hank’s not sure she has the capability to be anything _but_ pleasant.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies awkwardly, hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder. “I’m...here to see Principal Sibylle.”

Behind him, the door of to the main office swings opens with a shushing noise as the rubber bottom scrapes against the carpet. Hank assumes it’s another student or a parent. Maybe a teacher. He doesn’t turn around to look.

“Right this way, Mr. Anderson,” Rachel says with a sweeping motion of her hand toward the entryway a little past her desk and to the right. It’s marked with an engraved, gold plaque that reads: ‘Principal Lucy Sibylle’.

The room is one that he’s familiar with, at least nowadays. A year ago would have been a completely different story.

Lucy Sybille is sitting behind her mahogany desk when he enters. She looks up from scattered paperwork with a serene smile, her brown skin contrasting starkly with the cream colored hijab that she’s wearing today. The fabric of it flows down across the shoulders of a blouse made in the same material and shade.

“Sit down,” she tells him, deceptively soft around the authority in her voice. Her onyx eyes watch him in a manner that bars no room for disobedience. Satin over steel.

There’s a calculated pause as Hank takes a seat, subconsciously picking the same chair as he usually does on his frequent visits. The one to the left. The threading is open on the armrest.

“It’s good to see you again, Hank,” she continues pleasantly as Hank settles his backpack between his feet. “I trust you had a good summer?”

“Can’t complain.” He shrugs and meets her eye, ignoring the familiar sensation of being three inches tall beneath her gaze. Not that she’s a frightening woman by any means, but she suffers no fools in her school. God knows Hank Anderson had acted very much a fool this last year. “Doesn’t really feel like I left.”

“I’ve been told you made excellent progress making up credits over the summer,” Lucy leads in. She leans forward on her elbows, and so it officially begins. The conversation that he’s had about a thousand times before and during the break. The razor’s edge that is Hank’s education.

“Yeah, my mom made sure to guilt trip me into that one,” Hank deflects. The comment is met with a smile that doesn’t reach Lucy’s knowing eyes. Probably because they’re too busy seeing through his bullshit. Liv had indeed talked to him about improving on some of his grades during the summer, but it was his own sense of guilt and not any pressing by his mother that got him out of bed every morning.

“Whatever the reason, it will only help your case when it comes to applying for colleges.”  

“I just wanna graduate, Mrs S. What college is gonna want my record?” College. With every indiscretion, every outburst, every absence, the idea became less a goal and more of a dangling sword. Getting sharper and higher the more he sabotaged himself.

“Extensive as they may be, you aren’t your disciplinary reports, Hank. There’s no reason to limit yourself.”

“I’m not—” Hank cuts himself off with a sigh. He rubs his palms down the thighs of his jeans in a familiar, nervous gesture. “I just don’t get the point.”

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. The discomfort causes his body to tense up. He crosses his arms and does his best to keep a cool head. A pause lingers between them for a beat.

“I am considering,” Lucy begins slowly, “possibly revisiting those records.”

“What?” Hank does his best to hide the surprise in his voice to no avail. “Really?”

“You absolutely need to stick with your studies, not to mention the ACT and SAT exams,” she continues with a weight that hasn't wavered. “And I need a doctor’s note before I can make any promises. I’m sure you know what that means.”

Hank sinks back into the creaking leather of his chair, his head swarmed with memories of every adult within a fifty mile radius urging him to ‘just talk to someone’. It had about the effect one might expect on the stubbornness of an angry teenager.

He skipped all but one session.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for me to go to counselling?” he queries, the set of shoulders imparting that this is, in fact, the worst thing she could ask of him.

Lucy is unfazed, likely far too used to dramatic teens in her office.

“I think the only perfect time is when you are willing.”

“That all happened last year,” Hank tries instead. “Aren’t you guys always trying to get me to move on?”

“Have you?” Her eyes meet his pointedly, and the question hangs unanswered for a deliberate moment before she diverts her attention to her computer screen. It's nice enough but, with a plastic backing like that, more than likely several years old. “I’ve also taken a look at your schedule this year. That’s a decent workload you’ve put on yourself.”

“We’ll see if it pays off in a few months,” he tells her, sounding as doubtful as he feels.

“That, Hank, is entirely up to you.”

The words settle heavy enough for him to look back down towards his bag on the floor. He feigns a smile when Lucy rounds her desk to hand him a finalized copy of his timetable. It’s not how he imagined it would look, but then again that can be said about a lot of things.

Hank’s train of thought is interrupted by the small buzzer on the principal’s desk. Lucy presses her manicured finger to the flashing, red button, and Rachel’s voice suddenly fills the room.

“Principal Sybille, Mr. Stern is back from the archives. Should I tell him to wait?”

“As a matter of fact,” Lucy replies. She's watching Hank with a thoughtfulness that he isn't sure he likes, “could you send him in?” Her attention remains pinpointed on Hank who has begun an uncomfortable shift off his chair. He holds the handle at the top of his backpack impatiently.

“Can I go?”

“Please stay a moment, Hank. I have a small request to ask of you.” He doesn’t have the time to puzzle over the words before there’s a quick, firm knock on the door behind him. “Come in.”

Hank can’t recall ever seeing anyone his age who’s so clean cut that they look ready for a job interview. Not ‘part time at a fast food joint or movie theater’ job interview, either. A sit down for a nice nine-to-five. In an office. With benefits and a couple Chloes holding down the front desk. The boy’s chocolate-colored hair is neatly styled save for an errant strand curling over his forehead. For a brief moment, Hank is reminded of Clark Kent although this mild mannered, doe-eyed individual is no country beefcake.

“Good to see you again, Connor,” Lucy greets with a softness that reminds Hank of his first couple years at the school. “I trust you got your ID card okay?”

“I’m afraid it took a couple of tries,” ‘Connor’ tells her. “Mr. Falone said I kept looking like a deer in the headlights.” It’s then that the boy’s attention focuses on Hank while Mrs. Sybille tries her best to tamp down a smile. “Hello, my name is Connor Stern. I’m new to Donovan-Powell High.”

Unexpected. The voice coming out of Connor’s mouth is _unexpected_. Breathy and with a more inquisitive tone than Hank imagined. The big, brown eyes only heighten the whole ‘Boy Detective’ look he seems to be rocking.

He also sounds a bit like he’s reading out of a manual.

“Uh...Hank Anderson. I’m...old to Donovan-Powell High.” He catches himself noting the freckles flecked across Connor’s face.

He’s...cute.

 _He’s your fucking type is what he is_ , a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like his second eldest sister taunts. And okay, maybe Hank’s attraction when it comes to men leans heavily in the direction of taller than average twinks, but honestly that’s none of Sally’s fucking business. It’s an inane thought when he considers the fact that it isn’t actually Sally that’s bringing up any of this in the first place.

“Connor needs a bit of a tour before class starts,” Lucy informs him, interrupting his straying thoughts. Hank looks at her stupidly for a full beat and a half before what she’s saying clicks into place.

“Wait, me?” He doesn’t bother to hide his incredulity even as he can feel Connor’s gaze on him from the corner of his eye. “You want _me_ to show him around?”

“Very intuitive, Hank,” Lucy replies, dry as a bone. Hank glowers back at her in a familiar sort of way that he wouldn’t have dared in his freshman or sophomore year.

“Why?” he clarifies.

“He’s new.” She settles back into her swiveling chair behind the desk. “He’s never been in an institution like this one.”

“I’ve been homeschooled my entire life,” Connor speaks up from where he’s still standing. Spine straight and shoulders back. His voice retains that factual tone like he’s reciting from a cue card. Hank glances over at him, eyes trailing down the kid’s trim form and back up again. He’s wearing a pair of grey chinos with a high quality, leather belt peeking from beneath a blue sweater. There’s a button up shirt under his first layer, all tucked in by the looks of it, and a tie tight at his throat. The sleeves aren’t even rolled up or ruffled. They’re pulled down neatly around fine wrists. Even his tan, suede shoes are barely toeing the line of casual.

It isn’t a bad look. The fit is good, actually. Flattering. He just...comes off a bit like a square. Or a thirty year old dentist.  

“Shocking,” Hank says finally, a sharpness to his tone that he didn't intend to come out as mean as it does. Connor looks at him, and instead of the meekness that Hank had expected to see there, there’s what he hesitates to call ‘sass’. Challenging.

Hank fights the twitching of his own lips.

Lucy tells him, “Be nice, Hank,” and he concedes with roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, alright.” Hank hefts himself up onto his feet and hauls his bag back over his shoulder, moving toward the door. Now that he’s standing he can tell that he’s a bit taller than Connor but not by much. A few inches maybe. Quite a bit broader though. To be fair, he’s broader than a lot of people. They’re shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions as Connor peers up at him. “You coming?”

There’s a second, a blink of an eye really, where Connor seems to not know what to do. Like Hank’s phrasing has made it difficult for him. Connor looks toward Mrs. Sybille with his mouth slightly open as if there’s an aborted thought on his tongue, but Lucy has already turned her attention back to whatever she’d been working on when Hank first entered. She’s used to Hank’s innate ability to know when he’s dismissed without much verbal indication.

“Of course,” Connor replies finally, not sounding entirely sure of himself.

Hank holds the door open for him as they leave, arm pressed against the wood. “Where’s your backpack?”

“I left it out here.” Connor slides past. He takes wide, determined strides toward the row of seats that face the reception desk. A bag is indeed waiting there. It’s very obviously new and much nicer than Hank’s with a flap instead of a zipper. It’s leather too, the same tan as Connor’s shoes. Hank off-handedly wonders if the match was intentional.

“Wouldn’t do that shit if I were you,” Hank suggests helpfully. “Leaving your bag unattended like that? You’re just askin’ for trouble.”

“It wasn’t unattended.” Connor pulls one strap over his shoulder. He goes for the other at first, but his eyes seem to observe Hank and think the better of it. Instead, he mimics Hank’s own way of holding his bag on one side. An interesting quirk. “The ST200 was here.”

“The what now?”

Connor gestures toward the reception desk. “The ST200. The android.”

“You mean the Rachel?”

“That is the usual designation for that skin, yes.” He hoists the bag higher up with a little bounce. “Wearing your backpack this way reinforces muscle imbalance and poor posture.”

Hank runs a hand through his sandy curls as he replies with a dry, “Is that a fact.”

“You’re making fun of me,” but Connor doesn’t sound nearly as offended as Hank might have expected.

“Well aren’t you fuckin’ quick,” he tells him, not unkindly. “Come on. We only have a little while before the bell.”

“So far, you’re an excellent tour guide,” Connor notes and Hank is starting to enjoy when he shows a glimmer of acerbic wit. Not that he’d admit it outloud.

“No one likes a smart ass,” he lies and motions to the android sitting a few feet away from them with a glassy, empty look in her eyes. “Her name _is_ Rachel, by the way. This is the office. The carpets are fucking ten years old and a bird died above that tile with the water stain last year. It smelled like shit for a month.”

Connor cocks his head ever so slightly to the right. “How do you know?”

“How do I know what? That a bird died?”

“How do you know that her name’s Rachel?” he explains.

And Hank...well he supposes he hadn’t even thought to ask. Choes are ‘Chloe’ and Rachels are ‘Rachel’. Owners can name them. It’s just considered optimal to keep the more simplified designations when the typical position for a bot is in a field of customer service. After all, knowing the name that goes with a particular face is easier than having to read a name tag. Customers _love_ not having to read.

Hank grunts after a pause. The closest to a concession that he’s willing to give.

“Hey, you.” The ‘droid turns her head from where she had been staring into the middle distance and smiles amiably. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Rachel,” she responds automatically.

Hank looks back to Connor with a shrug and an expression that says, ‘What’d I tell you,’ as though the question hadn’t made him wonder. Connor does not seem terribly impressed.

“Alright, let’s go.” Hank reaches out for the handle to the door, pulling it open. “Or would you rather stay with Reception Bot 3000?”

“No. I’m coming,” Connor huffs and hurries along past Hank.

 _Oh._ Hank thinks. _He’s cute when he pouts._

He immediately rattles the thought away. Now is really not the time, dumbass.

“So, uh, basic shit first,” he starts, brushing away the cobwebs that have formed in his memory in order to map out a mental path. He leads Connor down a sandy colored hallway. It gives the illusion that the sun shining through the high windows is brighter and warmer than it actually is. “The building’s old as balls, so it’s weird to get around. There’s two floors. Most of the senior classes are here, but if you have any classes that freshmen or sophomores usually take, you’ll have to trek over to the mid-high building. I think we’ve got like...sixteen hundred kids total or something—”

“Fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, to be exact.” It takes a moment for Hank to register the precision of Connor’s comment. Before he has a chance to react with more than a surprised glance, however, Connor clarifies, “I got that from the brochure.”

“Huh. Didn’t know our school had those.” Of course someone like Connor would read the brochure. Probably found it on a section of the receptionist counter that Hank’s eyes always skitter across.

“Whatever,” he continues without much pause at all, “make sure you keep up. We’re gonna take a shortcut, so I can show the nurse’s office.”

“Got it.”

Overall, tours are generally pretty boring. He tells Connor about the school nurse as they pass his office— _"He’s a holy-roller and a half. Gets pissy over any birth control that isn’t a chastity belt and thinks two dudes fucking is a sign of end times. Avoid at all costs.” This makes Connor frown_ —and adds charming if not entirely untrue anecdotes as he explains how Connor might find his classrooms based off room number— _“Just be careful of 224. Kids say things knock around if you’re in there by yourself.” That one gets a twitching sort of smile even if Connor hides it behind a withering glance_.

By the time they reach a section of the school with lockers lining the walls, excited chatter and the slamming of locker doors have begun to echo down the halls as they weave through clusters of reunited classmates. Hank keeps track of the new kid. Well, as best as he can keep track seeing as Connor is looking in every direction except ahead of him.

“Down to the right, you’ll find the music rooms bu—”

“What kind of music?” Connor asks. The interruption is eager and sudden enough to cause Hank pause. He thinks briefly of earnest puppy eyes before responding.

He shrugs and tells him, “Depends who's using it. Why? You play?”

“No. I don’t know much about music. _Yet_ ,” and as cryptic an answer as that is, Hank opts not to question. He tugs Connor along, passing numbered classrooms that are slowly beginning to fill with students.

“Next stop: Sports Hall. Don’t go behind the bleachers. A kid got crushed there once and now they always check for anyone hiding.” Connor says nothing to this, and Hank wonders if he heard him at all. He glances back to see the kid giving him the Look. Again. Hank is becoming familiar with the way ‘the Look’ sits on Connor’s face. “You think I’m joking.”

“Obviously,” he intones, and Hank is honestly surprised that he doesn’t roll his eyes.

“What you should really be wondering is whether you’re gonna get quizzed on this later or not.” Hank smirks at the furrowing of Connor’s brow and continues on, leaving Connor to question the level of truth in any of his bullshit.

The hallways are long and winding, but Hank guides Connor with an assurity that he hadn’t really thought about until now. Muscle memory. Like driving.

It gets easier to navigate once they’re deeper in, wandering around areas that most students won’t bother venturing toward until the warning bell rings.

Not a ton to talk about between points of interest, though.

“And _here_ ,” Hank starts because he’s liked Connor’s reactions so far. To be absolutely clear, he taps the simple, metal drinking-fountain that’s attached to the wall on its plastic siding, “we have the Cursed Fountain.”

“I assume you’re going to tell me why it’s cursed.” Connor walks up along the opposite side of it with eyes dancing, ready to play along.

“Once the water pressure got so built up, the whole thing burst and shot down the hallway.”

“Physically impossible.”

“And during a bitter, cold winter a kid got her tongue stuck to it. Had to call the fire department.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Yeah I know,” Hank concedes, “but are you gonna be the guy who tells them? Come on. The PAC’s this way.”

“PAC?” Connor wonders as they continue past sign-up announcements and ten year old aspirational cutouts pinned up on a corkboard covered by locked glass.

Hank doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens one of the double doors to the room in question. They have a darker, more ominous tone compared to the rest of the school’s palette. Hank waves for Connor to follow. Beyond the heavy entrance is an auditorium that spreads out wide before them with a dimly lit stage rising above plush, purple seats. Hank smells the lingering scent of paint and lets out a startled breath.

“Oh. Performing Arts Center,” Connor works out. His eyes dart around, taking it all in.

Hank shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans—torn, color faded from the wash, not nearly as well taken care of as Connor’s pants—and tries not to stare at the captivated way that Connor seems to look at most things. Did his parents keep the poor kid locked in the fucking basement?

“If there’s an assembly, it’ll usually be in here,” he tells Connor. “Pep rallies are in the gym, though.”  

“Assemblies in the PAC. Pep rallies in the gym,” Connor repeats. “Got it.”

“Let’s go. We haven’t got long.”

The first bell hasn’t sounded yet, but a quick look at his phone tells Hank that it won’t be terribly long now.

“Down that hall past the labs is the library.” Hank points at a door down a forked hall but then turns in the opposite direction with Connor on his heels.

“Is that also haunted?” Connor asks without missing a beat.

“Only by the stressed out and the introverts. What number is your first period? I’ll show you where your room is.”

“176,” Connor replies and then, “Which one are you?”

“Hm?” Hank makes a sharp turn in the proper direction, weaving through the crowd.

“Which one are you? Stressed or introverted?”

“Oh, I go hard both ways, my friend.” He had figured this might get a smirk or eyeroll out of the snarky new kid, but Connor gives him a focused frown across his brows as if he's trying to work something out before his face softens into a smile. It’s so small and very nearly _gentle_ that something thickens in Hank’s throat. The moment doesn’t last long. The first bell rings shrill and loud above them.

“Ah shit,” Hank mutters. He’s suddenly flooded with the knowledge of where he is in the building, where he _needs_ to be, and the little time he has to do it. In a rush, he hitches his bag. “Gotta run. Your room is just down the hall and to the left. Can’t miss it.”

“Oh.” Connor’s voice is barely a whisper of a thing and when Hank takes a good look at him, he realizes that he’s... _nervous_. He hadn’t been before, when they were talking. Now, though, he’s fiddling with the strap of his bag and chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s been homeschooled all his life, Hank remembers. It isn’t just a new school. It’s a whole new _planet_.

“Come here,” he orders, hands out in instruction. Fuck, he’s going to be late isn’t he? Connor moves without hesitation. No suspicion or snark. Hank hasn’t known him long or anything, but he has to wonder at that. He grabs at Connor’s tie without mentioning it. “You look like you’re on your way to fuckin’ Sunday School.”

“That’s bad, I take it,” Connor jokes in turn as Hank slides the silk neck piece from his collar. Hank rolls his eyes. Good naturedly, of course.

He gives the kid a quick once over. Not quite satisfied, he reaches out for Connor’s arm and pushes the sleeves up to the elbow so that they look deliberately ruffled. Repeats the action on the other side.

“There,” he decides. “Much better. Can’t look too stuffy. Now you just...seem like you have fashion sense.”

“Unlike you?” Connor’s lips twitch with an underlying humor. There’s no meanness there. Just a gentle tease. Almost like they’re friends.

“Oh, ha-ha, laugh it up. I call it retro,” Hank shoots right back. Connor’s raised brow seems more than a little dubious. “I gotta run for real, though. I’m gonna be so fucking late. I’ll see you around, alright?”

“I look forward to more of your grim anecdotes,” Connor replies, and that smile is still there. Small but honest enough for Hank to huff out a chuckle before hauling ass down the emptying hallway.

His heart races in shit spewing fear. Fear of fucking up on the first day. Of already disappointing...someone. His mom, the principal, whoever. Hank can’t seem to berate himself too much for the situation, though.

He isn’t late in the end. He makes it mere moments before the second bell—something that surprises Hank as much as everyone else in the class—and sits down in an open chair with his breath still heaving. Good start, he thinks. Sure, it was by the skin of his teeth, but for him it’s a good start indeed.

When he brings his hands up to rest on the desk, he realizes he’s still clutching Connor’s tie between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](http://roboxcop.tumblr.com) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](http://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)!


	2. Part I, August 17th 2028 (Connor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry for the delay! Between us we had a week long roadtrip and two head colds between us so things got a little pushed back. Anyway this is longer than the last chapter which hopefully makes up for it. 
> 
> It should be noted that even though Amanda is human in this fic, we are basing her characterization on AI!Amanda that we see in game. Also our reference to Indian Motorcyles re-branding is our wishful thinking bc I mean. Their bikes are pretty, but the name and logo are a little yikes.

**August 17th, 2028**

It had taken Connor two months, one week, four days, and eleven hours to convince his mother—to convince _Amanda_ to let him enroll in a single year of high school. He knows that her decision was heavily influenced by outside forces, but a part of him likes to believe that she had been swayed at least somewhat by his pleas.

At the time, he had been grateful. Now, though? Now, he’s not so sure. There’s so much to absorb. So many people flowing like a heavy current around him. So many sounds that ripple and crash together until it’s nearly impossible to pick out one voice from the many.

Hank Anderson—a veritable life raft tossed to Connor in the wide, open sea—flees down the hallway in a rush, his backpack still slung over one shoulder. Connor is sure that carrying it that way only makes it more difficult to keep the bag from sliding off, particularly in Hank’s hurried state. He watches as Hank accidentally bumps into another student. He gives a brisk but very clearly sincere apology, and without knowing why, the sight causes something to loosen in the center of Connor’s chest.

He likes Hank, he decides. Officially. Makes a note of it in his head. Hank is _good_.

The classroom that he had directed Connor toward is not packed in the way that Connor had worried that it might be. He releases a relieved sigh at the sight of so many empty seats. The throng of students in the hallways had been...overwhelming to say the least. A sensory overload. The sparsity here seems much more bearable. Though he assumes that, judging by the number of desks, not all of the classes held in this room are so small.

On the back wall is a large, painted mural of the world map, the proportions severely askew and the palette just shy of being pleasing to the eye. The chairs all face toward a sizable smartboard with the teacher’s desk off to the left. Small, vinyl flags are strung across the table’s metal front.

(Quietly, he identifies: United States, Australia, Brazil, Canada, China, United Kingdom, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Mexico, and Spain. Left to Right.)

He chooses a seat in the front row. Amanda would approve of that.

“Hey,” a voice greets him as he’s settling his book bag on the ground. When he looks up, the boy in the seat to his left watches him with his face all open and warm. He has sandy colored skin and freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks and forehead. One eye is an olive shade while the other has a large blotch of vibrant blue that nearly eats up the green underneath it. They appear to be two entirely different colors when Connor isn’t paying particularly close attention.

Connor pulls out a spiral bound notebook and a small bag of pencils. Mechanical, sensible grips, 0.9mm lead because he tends to press down hard when he’s writing.

“Hello,” he replies, trying not to sound too stiff. “My name is Connor.”

Despite his efforts, this seems to amuse the other boy. There is no meanness in the lines of his face. “I’m Markus. This is Josh.”

He motions to the boy next to him. Even seated and slouching, Josh looks taller than Markus with darker skin and eyes. He’s not built quite so broad as Connor remembers Hank being, but he isn’t as lean as Connor either. He rests somewhere happily in the middle.

Where Markus is wearing a fitted, sporty looking shirt with designer jeans—both of which appear so new that Connor wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this was their first use—Josh’s clothes are more well-worn. Likely taken care of with a color-guard detergent but definitely purchased at least several months back.

Josh nods at Connor and smiles. His face looks a bit tighter than Markus’s, and for a moment Connor worries that he isn’t quite so welcomed by this second person.

Josh picks at an etching in the grain of his desk with his thumbnail. His leg jostles under the wooden slab, and he nibbles ever so slightly at the peeling skin of his bottom lip. No, Connor realizes. Josh’s smile isn’t tight in annoyance. Just discomfort. Connor wonders if he might be one of the introverts that haunt the library as Hank had claimed.

“You’re new right?” Markus forges along. He clearly takes helm as the more outgoing of the two. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Did you just move into town?”

“No I—” Connor nervously straightens his notebook until it’s parallel between the edges of his desk. “I was home-schooled.”

The piercing ring of the bell peals overhead. It causes them a moment of pause, but the teacher seems to loiter just outside the door.

“Well, we’re glad to have you, Connor,” Markus says. His voice has a rather soothing quality. “What class do you have next?”

Connor’s eyes flick, uncertain, in Josh’s direction. His gaze meets Connor’s, face softening and the corner of his mouth ticking upward in a silent message as he glances back to where his hand is resting on the desk.

 _Yeah,_ that look tells Connor. _Markus is always like this_.

“ASL II?” Connor isn’t sure why it comes out as a question.

“Oh,” Markus replies, seeming surprised by this announcement. 

“I’ve...already filled the language requirement, and I like working with my hands,” Connor quickly explains, worried that he’s said something strange. “Plus, it’s a valuable life skill. It creates a more accessible environment for the deaf community.”

“Fair point.” Josh speaks this time. He sounds much gentler than Connor had predicted.

Their teacher finally calls the class to attention before the conversation can continue. Most of the period is dedicated to discussing the syllabus and the particulars of how Mr. Yo-Han wants their notebooks to be arranged, as well as reinforcing the supply list that they have all undoubtedly already filled. Connor gets the impression that most of his first two days will be occupied much the same.

When the bell releases them at the end of the hour and they’ve all slung their bags back over their shoulders, Markus stops Connor before he can rush out. Josh lingers to the side with one hand on the strap of his backpack and the other tucked into his front jean pocket.

“You mind if I see your schedule?” Markus asks.

Connor glances between them, naturally suspicious but trying not to let it show. “Alright.”

He has to hunt through the pockets of his book bag to locate the cellphone Amanda had given him, but the page for his timetable is pulled up the moment that he brings the screen to life. Markus gives it a once over—hands courteously avoiding contact with the screen as if to assure Connor that he has no plans of snooping—with Josh hovering over his shoulder.

“We have Speech together in a bit,” Markus tells him as he hands the device back. “My next class is near yours if you wanna walk together.”

Josh's own class is on the other side of the building, necessitating that he take an entirely different path at a quicker pace. He says his goodbyes and tosses Connor a look that almost seems _apologetic_.

It only takes a few steps into the hallway for him to learn why: _everyone_ loves Markus. Objectively, Connor knows that this statement is not only incorrect but also impossible. A definite hyperbole. However, on a more figurative level, he can’t help but notice that at least one person among each traveling cluster waves a shy hello or calls out across the hall to them. Even some of the teachers stop to welcome Markus back.

Connor quickly realizes that he’s not expected to follow along with Markus’s gentle manners, but he makes sure to at least give the appropriate smile toward anyone who throws him a curious glance. If Markus is self conscious about the attention, he does a good job of hiding it.

“I know, I know,” he intones once he’s finished saying a long goodbye to the librarian. “Josh hates it when the ball starts rolling. It’s made us late at least once.” The lines of his brow curve in an apologetic arc. “It might be better for you to just go on ahead.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Connor adds, testing out the barest shade of humor in his tone, “I do keep expecting babies for you to kiss, though.”

The joke is met with a blink of surprise, before Markus huffs.

“My dad would like you,” he says, still grinning. Connor doesn’t know how true that is, but the thought is nice enough. They reach a split in the hallway, and Markus sways away from Connor in favor of a direction that leads toward his own classroom. He places his hand on Connor’s shoulder in a friendly manner, already at arm’s length. “See you later, alright?”

A rhetorical query, clearly. Markus has turned before there’s even a chance to reply, leaving Connor to continue on his own.

Connor knows he’ll spend the rest of the school day running a cursory scan over every new room that he enters for familiar faces. When he sees none amongst the few scattered members of his second period, he finds a seat next to the windows. His other class did not have any windows at all, and from the look of the building’s exterior, not many of the ones to come will either.

The teacher closes the door behind her with a click, marking her arrival. She’s much more punctual than Mr. Yo-Han.

“Rupert,” Mrs. Shawn begins sharply, her voice making a crisp cut through the chatter. Connor follows her pointed gaze toward the daydreaming young student behind him. Before, many of the boy's features had been too obscured by the brim of his baseball cap for Connor to distinguish anything defining in them. Now, though, he’s snapped his head up enough that Connor can finally see his face. Big, brown eyes and the wide bridge of his nose soften a striking set of cheekbones. To call his expression ‘a deer in the headlights’ would be an understatement.

 _“Please remove your hat,”_ Mrs. Shawn signs. Her hands mimic her overall harsh demeanor well enough that Rupert wastes no time obeying. He places it on the table, arms crossing over top of the cap and body shrinking down into his seat. His hair is dark and short but still fluffy from the constant headgear.

Connor doesn’t have the time to infer much else before Rupert glances up, clearly uncomfortable with the new set of eyes on him. Connor tries a small smile but is only met with a deeper set to Rupert's frown. It’s more confused than angry which Connor would classify that as a win.  

The inaugural lesson speeds through faster than the last, and the bell soon marks its end. Its trill is becoming quite familiar to Connor. People around him spring from their seats, drawing towards familiar faces. like little magnets finally released and unable to resist the pull of one another. An odd sensation creeps up Connor’s throat at the sight. Amanda had warned him about the isolation he might feel in such a scenario, the loneliness that he would undoubtedly experience and how such an emotional state wasn’t worth the effort of reaching out. He believed—and still does—that such a sentiment was entirely incorrect.

As he leans over in his seat to clip his bag shut, Connor spots a small notebook just below Rupert’s now vacated desk. The initials ‘R. T.’ are penned in the top left corner.

Connor slings his backpack over his shoulder in a hurry and rushes toward the exit as quickly as he can manage. He remembers seeing Rupert make a sharp left at the threshold. Remembers thinking about how fast he zipped into the hallway. Connor weaves effortlessly through the chaotic flow of students. He nearly stumbles over a faculty member but uses the momentum to keep himself on his feet as he sidesteps the obstacle.

When Rupert feels Connor’s hand on his shoulder, he startles, and that familiar look of surprise clings to his features as he turns around to face him.

“Hello. Your name is Rupert, isn’t it?”

Rupert says nothing. Only gives a single, slow nod.

“My name is Connor. I’m new,” he continues. Connor looks down at the notebook still clutched in his hand and extends it forward. “You dropped this. It looked like it might be important.”

Panic glints in Rupert’s eyes as he recognizes the proffered item. He snatches it away and shoves it deep into the messenger style bag on his hip.

He rustles around for a few more moments with his eyes trained downward before the stiffness of his posture sags. When he finally lifts his gaze—a shifting look of guilt on his features—he presses the tips of his fingers to his chin with a flat hand before bringing it down and toward Connor in a sign that is easily identified.

_“Thank you.”_

He disappears into the crowd students before Connor can reply in kind. It doesn’t hurt Connor really, but there's a strange disappointment at the departure. Connor has liked making friends so far. He’d hoped to perhaps obtain the beginnings of another.

On the other hand, he tells himself, Rupert did seem debilitatingly shy. Perhaps, that would take time.

Memories of Hank’s own rushed exit bubble to the forefront of Connor’s thoughts as he marks the time. It seems that it’s easy to get lost in the moments between his structured school day. He makes a note of this to keep himself from tardiness in the future.

_Socializing, while enjoyable, may lead to distractions from scheduled obligations._

By the time he reaches Criminal Investigation on the second floor—a class that had most surprised and excited him to see on the high school roster—there aren't many seats left. None that are comfortably isolated, at the very least. Connor finds one next to a boy who doesn’t seem to care about much outside of whoever he’s texting on his phone and barely seems to notice or mind Connor’s presence.

Immediately upon examining his environment, he can tell that this is one of the more popular classes due to the sheer volume of students. It’s far more crowded than his previous two periods, and he suspects that by the time the bell rings, every seat will be filled.

More importantly, though, he notices Hank Anderson standing in the doorway. Connor beams at the sight of him, a beat in his chest kicking up ever so slightly which he decides must be in recognition. Hank’s clear, blue eyes find him easily enough, and there’s a smile that tugs at his lips seemingly despite his best efforts. Connor thinks to motion him over before realizing that Hank is stuck sitting a few rows in front of him in the only desk still available.

Connor's disappointment must be palpable, because Hank gives a small shrug and a look of resigned acceptance as he settles into the empty seat. It’s disheartening. Infuriating, even. Still, there is a small sense of glee in the knowledge that they share at least one class together.

He finds himself unable to stop stealing glances in Hank’s general direction as the lesson carries on. Connor can’t help the way his eyes flick to the broad expanse of Hank’s back, shoulder blades shifting under a well-worn t-shirt that Connor knows bears the name and logo of a metal band on its front.

He shifts a lot more than his peers. Back to front to back again. Middle to right to left. Connor figures it’s because he’s built larger than the average student. Josh had trouble with where to put his legs, but he was leaner so the size of the seats never seemed to bother him.

Connor doesn’t know why he's so captivated by Hank’s movements. He’s simply...interested. Even as he tells himself that knowing the standards and procedures of this particular class is important, there’s that little spark of hope at the forefront of his mind that Hank will catch his eye.

(He also seems equally _mortified_ at the idea. It’s very counterintuitive.)

These first lessons have yet to be detrimental anyway, Connor reasons. Reigning the impulse seems just as unlikely as it does disagreeable.

He spends forty-five minutes splitting his attention between the teacher and the back of Hank’s head. Hank never does look. He starts shuffling with his book-bag before the bell even rings, and a nervous, fidgety sort of energy grips at Connor’s throat at the idea of Hank darting out the door without a word. He can’t bring himself to pack up early, though. It wouldn’t be polite.

Instead, though, Hank turns away from where the other students are funneling into the hallway when the bell trills. Connor watches from his peripheral as Hank walks deeper into the room until he’s standing at the side of Connor’s desk.

“Criminal Investigation, huh?” he starts.

Connor finds himself smiling, involuntarily, up at Hank as he clips his bag shut. “It wasn’t one I expected to see as an option, but I am interested.”

“Yeah, same,” Hank replies, nodding to himself. He shoves his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “My dad’s a cop.”

Connor teases, “I suppose that’s how you became such an upstanding citizen then?” as he stands and lifts his bag onto his shoulder in one fluid movement. They are ever so slightly closer than what might be considered acceptable, but Hank corrects this with a small step backward. Not that Connor minded all that much.

Hank moves down the aisle in a silent invitation.

“Y’know, your sarcasm is starting to sting.” Despite his words, though, Hank’s eyes are alight, and the tension in his body has faded. “What you got next?”

“Speech & Debate,” Connor recites.

“Had that last period, actually,” Hank says. He almost seems disappointed, but Connor can’t tell if that’s simply a projection of his own feelings on the topic. “Only one teacher for it, and it’s way far from where I’m headed. ‘Less you’re...stopping by your locker?”

Connor almost wishes that he was for the sake of that lilting optimism in Hank’s voice. “No one has passed out books yet.”

“Right. I shoulda figured that,” Hank sighs, stopping just outside the door. “Guess I’ll be seeing ya in at least one class, though.”

“We might see each other at lunch. Television had me under the impression that high schoolers had that together, as well.”

“Yeah, alright, but it’s not like that’s very long, either. Fuck, you should have been here two years ago. They cut lunch down by ten minutes, but everyone bitched so much that they changed it back.”

“Maybe I’ll sit with you,” Connor carries on in defiance the clear deflection. He doesn’t even know if Hank knows that he’s doing it.

“I—,” Hank cuts himself off, suddenly seeming unsure. His eyes very intentionally avoid Connor’s in a way that Connor is sure Hank thinks he doesn’t notice. “Yeah, maybe.”

Connor feels abruptly off-footed. As though he’s said something not quite right without realizing. It’s like chemistry: the conversation was in a fixed condition, Connor introduced a new component, and the reaction altered the state of the original element. The trouble only lies in the fact that Connor has no idea what that new component was or even if the change had been favorable.

He opens his mouth to say something—though he hasn’t worked out what—but Hank beats him to the pass.

“I gotta run,” he tells him. “I’ll...be around.”

“Me too,” Connor tries without even being positive that he knows what that means. Hank smiles, but it’s tight around the corners. He’s gone with a wave, leaving Connor frowning in the wake of him.

.

Markus saves a seat for Connor in Speech class—an unexpected gesture but kind nonetheless—and this time it’s only him that Connor recognizes. Josh has math according to his friend, and Markus does not seem to have any significant attachments in this class despite many of the students obviously knowing or knowing of him.

A few of them give Connor peculiar looks when Markus calls him over.

After class, Markus offers to walk with him to lunch. Since walking alone has proven a more isolating experience and since Markus is good company, Connor accepts.

If walking through the populated halls of the high school had been overwhelming the first time, it’s nothing compared to the cafeteria. All the faces that had once been scattered and staggered throughout the building are now coalesced into one space. Veins and arteries emptied as the blood gathers into a too full heart.

It sounds like being trapped in a drum. The noise echoes and folds over itself into a discordant clamor, and the hues are all muted in a pallet of cream and grey and oatmeal. Well, aside from splashes of the school colors, that is. An attempt to create common ground. A symbol of unification.

Markus chats idly with Connor as he leads him between long, speckled tables. Connor finds himself distracted, scanning the many faces in search of one in particular.

He spots Hank sitting not too far from where Connor is in the aisle. He seems mostly alone but not terribly lonely by the looks of it. Connor gets the impression that the two boys perched across the table and one seat down may actually be Hank’s friends.

Hank smiles back at him when Connor catches his eye, grin starting to show teeth. There’s a sweet, little gap between the front two that Connor had found himself fond of near instantly.

Hank’s face falls just a little when he sees Markus at Connor’s side.

“Come on,” Markus says, speaking up to be heard over the noise and only adding to the very cacophony that causes him the need in the first place. A feedback loop. “I’ll introduce you to my friends.”

When Connor glances back in Hank’s direction, unsure, Hank has shoved headphones into his ears and seems to be engrossed in something on his phone. Maybe he prefers to eat alone.

Connor knows by now that Markus is a gregarious sort, but he appears to keep a limited number of people as close friends. Simon Phillips, with his sleepy blue eyes, is presented to Connor as Markus’s boyfriend, and—in contrast to the pale shades and pastel accents of the Phillips boy—a girl named North sits diagonal to him. Her lips are painted strikingly dark against much fairer skin. She wears the typical staples of what Connor has seen termed as ‘gothic’ style: a black, graphic t-shirt, the same shade of ripped jeans, and combat boots with elevated soles. Josh is settled to her left. He gives Connor an upward tick of his chin in greeting.

The introductions have all but finished by the time another boy plops in the spot next to Josh, and the name ‘Daniel’ is added to the list of new acquaintances. He looks identical to Simon as far as features are concerned—he could not be more different in all other ways—so the relation is obvious.

He seems vaguely suspicious of Connor on initial encounter but softens easily upon presuming that Connor is not a threat.

“How’s the school treating you so far?” he asks, his voice much more curt than his brother’s placating tones. He leans across the table toward Connor, almost conspiratorially. Amidst the hollow echoes, it’s the easiest way to understand or be understood by anyone.

Up close, Connor can pick apart the distinctions between the twins. A slightly different turn to the brows. The thinness of Daniel’s face. Simon’s wider eyes. A minute variation of complexion. The teal of Daniel’s irises and the robin’s egg shade of Simon’s. It’s fascinating.

“I like it. It can be overwhelming at times, but I enjoy being a part of something so alive,” Connor replies. He pops open the lid of the tupperware container that Amanda had slipped into his bag. The group has a moment of pause, and Connor can’t be sure if it’s because he’s chosen too earnest a reply or the contents of his lunch. It's a colorful array with cut up cucumber, a bit of shredded chicken, deep purple grapes, and cherry tomatoes that burst in his mouth. It makes Amanda look the ideal mother. Or maybe just a health nut.

North stabs at a mushy, grey pile of macaroni and ‘cheese’. Josh seems to have forgone the pasta all together in favor of soggy chicken nuggets dipped in ketchup. Markus is sharing half of his homemade turkey on rye sandwich with Simon. The greens look about as fresh as Connor’s even if Simon picks them off and places them on a napkin to dispose of later.

“Give it a month,” North scoffs without looking away from her lunch, too busy poking at it with a plastic fork that looks flimsy in her hands.

“Already?” Josh sighs with a bored sort of exasperation. “It’s barely been a day, North.”

“What?” North wastes no time meeting Josh’s eyes to argue. Her food is abruptly forgotten which is probably for the best. “It’s not my fault this school is a mess.”

“So what do you have after lunch?” Simon cuts in at Connor’s elbow. His smile is bright enough for Connor to focus on him instead of the squabbling voices. He wonders if it’s a practiced maneuver, something that Simon does on purpose to distract from rising tensions. 

“AP Calculus BC,” Connor replies, and the slight anxiety behind Simon's smile evaporates in a flash.  

“Me too! We can walk together, if you want?”

“I would like that.” Connor grins softly, a feeling of relief sweeping through him. He has consumed so much media centered around his current, cultural experience. He knows what to expect but not how to emotionally categorize any of it.

“Well, then I leave you in Simon’s capable hands,” Markus tells Connor as he folds up the crusts of his sandwich in leftover cellophane and stuffs it into the empty chip bag that he’d split with Simon. He practically inhaled his food.

“Leaving already?” Simon asks, sounding melancholy. It seems to be something of a routine for them.

“First day of school. Lots to prep.” Markus shrugs on his backpack and reaches out for Simon’s hand. “Find you later?”

“You know where.”

Markus leans in for a quick peck on the lips while no teachers seem to be paying attention, and Connor feels a bit like a voyeur for watching.

“See you around, Connor,” Markus says as he pulls away. He tries to catch the attention of either Josh or North as he departs but doesn’t seem too bothered when they ignore him in favor of their bickering.  

“We should just,” North is arguing with a glib sort of shrug, “blow the whole thing up. Fixed.”

“Don’t even say that as a joke!” Josh exclaims. He seems fed up with North’s smugness but adamant to have the final word nonetheless.

Daniel interjects, “I’m game,” with a pointed bite of his macaroni. He hasn’t contributed much to the conversation, mostly because he’s been enraptured by their battle from the start. Dinner and a show, Connor supposes. He’s not entirely sure why anyone would find it amusing, but Daniel’s smirk hasn’t left his face since they kicked off.

“You full?” Simon asks. “I’m full. Maybe we should just head out.”

Simon is on his feet so fast that it takes a moment for Connor to process. He’s mostly quiet as they pull together whatever trash they have between them and head back out into the hallways. They don’t seem to be the only students to have pitched their food early.

“Don’t let their arguing worry you too much,” Simon tells Connor eventually, bumping their shoulders together as they walk. “They’re just...polar opposites.”

“Then why…?” Connor starts. His every instinct pushes him to finish the sentence. To ask, _‘Why do they stay together?’_ like he wants to. The curiosity gnaws at him, but something deeper whispers that it might be considered ‘a shitty thing to say’. So far he’s managed to avoid that with flying colors. Wouldn’t do to ruin it now.

“Good sex?” Simon gives a bored shrug. He lets out a laugh when Connor is unable to hide the furrowing of his brow, and Connor thinks he may mistake it for embarrassment. As they cross the threshold to the classroom, he adds, “Stubbornness, too, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Connor feels a familiar tightness bunch up his insides as they walk through the door. Another classroom speckled with new faces to learn. None of them are familiar; none of them are Hank. A wave of disappointment hits him at the thought of sharing only one class with his gruff tour guide.

Not all of the students are in attendance yet, however. Lunch still has quite a bit of time left. Some hope remains.

Simon tugs him to a pair of corner seats next to the window. Connor follows, grateful for the comfort of Simon’s company amidst the unknown faces, no matter how sparse. A girl in the front row stares at him with curiosity but not enough to ask for his name. People like Markus are apparently few and far between.

Simon chats with him aimlessly as the lunch hour widdles away. Connor learns a surprising amount about him. Simon is laid back and self-deprecating and gets frustrated with Markus’s messiah complex even if he doesn’t know it himself yet. He excels in mathematics and is middling in language arts and was too anxious to take a speech class.

Students trickle in around them. It’s not a terribly large class, but Connor isn’t surprised given the advanced nature of it.

The most notable thing about the lesson is getting to know the teacher. He's a soft spoken man who seems to enjoy teaching as well as the subject matter which is stark contrast to the instructor in the following period.

When Connor arrives in Honors English, she’s already standing by her desk. Connor knows he isn’t late, but her scutinizing gaze makes him question. He spots both North and Josh sitting near the middle of the room, and before he has a chance to wonder about approaching them, North waves him down with a welcoming smile that is somehow still sharp around the edges. Connor smiles back. There's still no Hank.

Unlike in Connor’s other classes, the teacher wastes no time discussing the lessons she has planned. She directs them to their class’s page on their tablets and begins with listing the themes they will dissect in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Connor recalls seeing a copy of that book in Amanda’s study, neatly stacked on her shelf amongst other classics. He weighs the odds of being allowed to use it for class. Slim to none.

North and Josh don’t ask about his next period the way that Hank, Markus, and Simon had. Josh hasn’t quite warmed up to him, Connor surmises, and North seems distracted. Neither of them acknowledge the spat they had in the cafeteria except for a barely there eye roll on Josh’s part when he receives a text message that Connor is vaguely certain came from North.

When he gets to his Psychology class, he’s surprised to find North there as well. Daniel is with her.

“Ugh,” North groans in lieu of a greeting when Connor approaches, slumping down into her seat. Connor lowers his bag slowly to the ground near the desk next to hers. “Almost done with this boring ass day.”

Daniel snorts from behind her. He’s sitting with one foot up in the chair and his arms crossed over his knee. “You’re so dramatic, North.”

“Oh, like you’re _excited_ to be back in school,” North shoots back, spinning around to face him.

“Simon was obnoxious,” Daniel bemoans. He settles both feet onto the ground and sets his elbows on the desk instead. “You’d think Markus being in New York was the end of the world.”

North smiles with an edge. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip. “They’re _nauseating_.”

Both heads turn toward Connor, and he’s almost sorry that he chose to sit with them. Separate, he’s sure they would be intimidating. Together, he doesn’t think there’s a person on earth who wouldn’t feel a little cowed.

“I…” he tries before changing course. “They seem well suited.”

This, at the very least, appears to entertain them.

“‘Well suited’,” Daniel repeats.

“Can we keep him?” North says in a tone that makes Connor ruffle.

Or it would, if he hadn’t caught sight of a familiar figure in his periphery. His head snaps toward where Hank is slinking through the door, his posture hunched just a little as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

He sees Connor almost immediately. This time there are open seats on almost all sides of Connor, save those that are occupied by North and Daniel. If students gave Connor interested glances when Markus had waved him over in their Speech class, it’s nothing compared to the looks that Hank gets when Connor calls out to him. Hank crosses the front of the classroom, only acknowledging the attention with a slight tensing of his posture.

He chooses the desk to Connor’s left, putting an entire row between him and the other two like Connor is a barricade.

“This is North and Daniel,” Connor introduces, though he’s sure Hank at least knows their faces.

“Yeah, I know who they are,” Hank tells him. He nods to North and then Daniel. “Wednesday. Pugsley.”

North rolls her eyes at this. Her gaze has been darting back and forth between Connor and Hank since Hank entered the room. “Your references are kinda dated.”

“Wasn’t there a remake a few years ago or some shit?” Hank replies with a shrug. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“It wasn’t good, and no one saw it.”

Hank ignores her, leaning a little toward Connor instead. “How do you tell the twins apart anyway?”

“Oh.” Connor blinks. He remembers Simon and Daniel and picking out the minor variations that stood out between them like sorting the whites from the off-whites in the laundry. “Daniel’s eyes have more green in them. And his face is thinner.”

“Is it?” Daniel asks North.

She tilts her head to the side in consideration, brow furrowing. “Huh, yeah it is.”

Hank reaches out while North and Daniel are distracted, poking one finger into Connor’s thigh just above the knee.

“You made new friends,” he says, his voice a low rumble.  

“Markus was in my first period.” Connor presses his thigh into Hank’s touch before Hank can pull away. “They’re nice.”

“Uh huh,” Hank hums, though he doesn’t seem to mean it. His eyes dart back to where Daniel and North are distracted by one another. “Gonna be honest, those two kinda terrify me.”

“But Hank,” Connor starts, a grin spreading across his face. Hank is built so broad and tall that it’s almost comical to imagine him cowering over his much smaller peers. What comes out, however, is, “you’re...so big.”

Hank looks simultaneously delighted—with the widest smile that Connor has seen on him yet—and flustered by this statement. He runs a hand down his face. His neck has gone a little pink.  “That’s—”

“Don’t even think about it,” North cuts him off. This only makes Hank bark out a single laugh.  

Connor’s head tilts to the side involuntarily in his confusion. “I don’t understand the joke.”

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Hank tries but North seems steadfast in shooting down his efforts.

“Like hell you will.”

The bell rings over head, and the sound of students shuffling into more appropriate positions spreads throughout the room. There’s a pit in Connor’s abdomen that he doesn’t quite understand. Something that dug in and hollowed out as Hank and North had shared a secret that Connor wasn’t equipped to participate in.

It’s a rather selfish feeling. He doesn’t think he likes it.

“Hey,” Hank whispers, even as the rest of the class is hushing in the presence of their teacher, “don’t worry about it. It’s not—I’m just being an idiot.”

“You seem rather well versed in that,” Connor teases, half grumbling. He feels even more foolish for that sensation in his belly than he did before, but something like fondness bubbles alongside it.

Hank looks toward the ceiling with a little shake of his head. There’s nothing particularly interesting up there. Just fiberglass tiles, all pockmarked with pattern and the evidence of a few students throwing writing utensils at them. “Of course I like you. You’re an asshole.”

Connor knows that on anyone else’s lips those last words might sound like an insult, but from Hank they are painted with familiarity and jest and something close to sweetness. Connor bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He settles into his seat, his pencils and notebook not even on the desk by the time the teacher calls them to order.

It still surprises Connor how difficult he finds dividing his attention between the teacher and Hank. The teacher is spewing the same introductory spiel that he’s heard six times, possibly closer to five and a half given his previous class, while Hank spins his pen between his fingers until he deems something important enough to write down. Connor’s peripheral vision isn’t enough to satiate his curiosity on the latter. He works up the nerve to steal a glance like he had in Criminal Investigation, and when he does, steely blue eyes meet his own. They both look away in a rush of panic. Caught out.

From the corner of his eye, however, Hank is smiling. The wave of relief is almost immediate.

Hank hunches over to jot something down and quickly looks up at Connor again, vying for his attention until Connor’s curious gaze meets his own. Hank’s eyes dart, pointedly, back down to his notebook.

 _“Bored yet?”_ His writing is a scratchy hybrid of neat, block letters and flowing cursive with a slight slant to the words.

Connor diverts his attention to his own notebook, feigning interest in the same way he’s seen Hank do as he writes his neat reply, _“Never. You?”_

This gets a smirk out of Hank. He turns his attention back to the teacher where she’s standing at the smartboard with a lingering smile still on his lips. Connor thinks perhaps that will be the end of it until Hank leans down once more.

_“Not anymore.”_

Connor wonders if his face can cramp up from trying so hard to tamp down a grin. They share a few more penned replies before a close call with the teacher cuts off all communication. The final bell is ringing overhead before Connor knows it, marking the end of his first day. It was shorter than he had expected. He’s going to do a lot of inventory on his expectations versus reality columns when he gets home.

“That’s day one down,” Daniel sighs as he gets onto his feet with an exaggerated stretch. His bag was already packed long before the bell shrilled through the halls.

Connor turns to face North. Daniel stands beside her with his arms crossed, waiting for her to finish putting the last of her things away. North’s collection of pins and badges gives a light rattle as she packs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Connor tells them. Both of them. He gives an earnest smile as he hitches his bag onto his shoulder. “I also wanted to thank you.”

“What for?” North asks. She cocks an eyebrow, but her lopsided smile betrays any mistrust she may have.

“For keeping the new student company.”

Daniel rolls his eyes, but North’s grin evens out and widens.

“You’re sweet,” she says and throws her backpack over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Connor.”

Daniel gives a silent wave and follows closely behind his friend as she moves toward the exit. When Connor turns back, Hank is leaning on his own desk with his bag hitched up on one side as usual and hands in his pockets. Waiting for Connor.

“Do you take the bus?” he queries. In silent agreement, they walk alongside one another in the same direction. Out through the classroom door and into the busy hallway.

“My mother picks me up.”

“At the Drop Off Zone?” Students everywhere are abuzz as they flush out into the corridors in a rush of excitement over the conclusion of the school day. Connor still hears Hank clearly through it all. “My bike’s parked down there. I’ll introduce you.”

“To your _bike_?”

.

“2018 Hendee Scout Sixty,” Hank introduces with a wide gesticulation. His arm drops back down to his side as he continues, “That’s not what it used to be called, but people were kinda dumb about naming shit back then.”

The love put into the motorcycle is the first thing that Connor notices. Despite its age, everything appears well maintained and even polished. Connor’s eye follows the stylish red line along the bike’s chassis as Hank lifts the black, leather seat to pull out his helmet.

“Hendee was the original name when they opened back in 1901,” Connor states, factually. ‘Indian’ was the name they used until around 2022. They had a rather insensitive profile of a chieftain head as their mascot. Connor doesn’t see any hint of it in the renovations. “It’s surprising that they chose to take a step back.”

Connor dares himself to take a small step closer as though the machine resting on its kickstand next to Hank’s hip is as beastly as it looks.

“So you into bikes or just shameful moments in marketing history?” Hank crosses his arms over his chest, letting the helmet dangle at his side. He doesn’t stop Connor’s curious scrutiny and even seems to enjoy the way that Connor is studying his bike.

“I’m into those two things, specifically.” The joke gets a laugh out of Hank before Connor adds, “I can certainly appreciate the hard work that you’ve put into it.”

“Thanks. Gets me from A to B,” Hank tells him. He plays with the strap of his helmet for a moment before pointing at the motorcycle with a casual thumb. “D’you want a ride? Spare your mom the drive?”

A ‘yes’ sits heavy on Connor’s tongue even as he knows that he has to refuse. He’s ready to thank Hank for the offer and bemoan that he can’t take him up on it. He knows how punctual Amanda is. She’s on her way already. Connor doesn’t even get the chance to start his apology, however, when he sees a familiar car pull up into the parking lot. He recognizes the tinted windows and shiny, black exterior glinting in the sunlight. His time is up.

“Maybe next time. She’s already here.” Connor doesn’t bother to hide the exhaustion in his voice as the car comes to a halt nearby. The door opens automatically, and its only then that Connor looks back at Hank. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Anderson.”

Connor waves while Hank rests his helmet on his head, the straps dangling unclipped along his chin. He hopes Hank fastens them. Connor will remind him tomorrow. He is coming back, after all.

Amanda’s gaze is on her phone when Connor slides into the passenger seat, typing a message with a series of quick taps.

“Hello,” Connor tries as he settles his bag between his feet.

Amanda sends her text and settles her cell into the docking station on the center console. She bypasses returning Connor’s greeting and asks, “Who was that?”

Her voice is cold and crisp as always. He could break it between his hands in one easy snap like icicles in the winter.

“It was just a boy I met in the parking lot,” he lies. His chest tightens up at the thought of telling her about Hank. A snarling, protective animal gnashes its teeth at her from somewhere inside of him. He has only experienced it once before, and it certainly wasn’t for a person.

“I hope he wasn’t bothering you,” she says, pinky flicking the indicator stick to turn on her right blinker. A steady clicking fills the car.

“No.” Connor can still see Hank as they wait in line at the intersection. He actually has both straps of his bag over his shoulders for once and is even fastening an extra belt across his chest. Probably for the ride home, Connor thinks. Hank seems to clip a tiny pinch of skin in the buckle. He curses and brings the wounded pad of his middle finger to his lips before waving his hand as if to shake off the pain. Connor wants to smile. He doesn’t. “No, he wasn’t.”

The rest of the ride home is quiet. Amanda doesn’t ask about school. The air is vaguely tense but only in the familiar way that it always is. A bowstring tightening twist by twist each day.

They pull into the drive without another word spoken between them. Amanda’s mouth is set in a hard line and her forehead is tight, the skin between her brows creased in a way that stays in the lines of her face even when she’s calmed. The house is not necessarily a comforting sight. From what Connor has read, it ought to be. The red of the brick stands out sharply against the white wash of the houses that sit on either side of it. A square column like the tower of a castle juts out in the center, and two windows peer down from it like wide, watching eyes. It’s the only part of the house that has a third story. At its uppermost floor is a single room. That room belongs to Connor.

“Did you eat?” Amanda asks as she tossed her keys into the dish. Connor shuts the door behind him.

“Yes,” he tells her. She may not approve of that. He keeps his posture defensive, just in case.

“We’ll have to deal with it later,” she intones, nothing giving away how she feels about it one way or another. She walks deeper into the house toward the dining room.

He aches for her to approve of this decision. To approve of him. Brightly, he says, “I made friends.”

“Anyone in particular.” Amanda pulls out a sliding cart from the corner of the room where it usually rests when it isn’t in use. There’s an expensive looking monitor on top of it with several wires connected to it’s ports. The other ends of the cords are unfastened, and they hang limply and slightly tangled at the sides.

“Markus Manfred.” Connor places his backpack on the mahogany table and tries not to disturb the perfectly arranged place settings as he does so. He stands there, beside the end-seat with its artistically crafted cresting rail and splats, in wait. Amanda hesitates as she picks through the cables. Her head ticks to the side in interest.

“Any relation to Carl Manfred?”

Connor nods a little, though he knows that she can't see him. “He’s his son.”

She stops picking through the plastic cords now, turning toward Connor. Her face is notably softer. There’s even a small smile tugging at her lips as she praises, “That’s a _very_ good connection to make, Connor.”

“His friends, as well,” Connor continues, riding the high of her approval. His chest feels pumped full of air. He doesn’t mention Hank, though. He won’t. Hank is his.

“Were you well liked?” she probes deeper, taking measured steps toward him.  

Connor nods cheerfully. It was nice to be liked, to be welcomed, to be looked after. “They even seemed protective.”

“That’s good, Connor.” Amanda sounds so gentle. So impressed. Connor had only hoped to make her this. She reaches up to press both of her palms on either side of Connor’s face, thumbs stroking softly up and down and up again. “I think you deserve a reward. No more ‘Amanda’. At least for now.”

All the tension that had been building for weeks loosens in Connor’s throat. His body visibly relaxes, shoulders just barely slouching. “Thank you, Mom.”

He hasn’t been allowed to call her this since she was pressed and bowed under the pressure of his request to enroll in school. Amanda smiles, the expression serene on her currant painted and glossy lips. She pats his jaw and pulls away.

“Now, turn around,” she orders but without the same sharpness in her voice that he knows she would have had mere moments ago. He obeys instantly. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t need to. He wants to please her, though. Wants her to _like_ him.

 _“Of course I like you,”_  Hank had said. The rest doesn’t matter.

“You promise you won’t look,” Connor asks. He tries not to make it sound like he’s begging. Keeps his voice steady even as the memories of Hank make his heart tick up in an entirely different sort of nervousness. With a steady breath that he doesn’t need to take, he wills the synthetic skin away from the nape of his neck. The bone white of his plating gleams in the light from the overhead fixture. He doesn’t have to see it to know this.

“As always,” Amanda placates, much closer now, “your memories are off-limits as long as you behave.”

Connor keeps his eyes trained on the grey, harbor oak of the hardwood floors. There’s a certain swirl in one of the planks where the tree it came from was knotted. It looks like a fish. Connor finds that if he focuses on it hard enough, it doesn’t hurt quite so much when Amanda clicks that certain cable into the port under Connor’s hairline.

Unplugged it looks like some science fiction device specifically used to do harm. Connor isn’t entirely sure that isn’t what it is.

“Don’t turn around, Connor,” Amanda reminds him when he tenses at the stinging, electric sensation of being plugged in for analysis. It doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times Connor goes through testing. Amanda never tries to be gentle, either. Not unless she’d like something from him.  

“Of course,” Connor replies. As if he would forget.

Don’t turn around. Don’t look.

The mantra rotates in his head like a top. Spinning smoothly round and round until it shutters and topples to a stop. A little balancing trick. Humans hold onto things like that. The ability to best nature and science, if only for a moment. Connor is proof enough of that hypothesis.

Don’t turn around. Don’t look.

He repeats it again, because he’s having trouble obeying today. He’s thinking of Hank’s smile and the way he shifts in his seat. Of the freckles across Markus’s nose and a warm, welcoming voice. Of quiet Rupert saying ‘thank you’ with his hands. Of Simon and Daniel. Josh and North.

Don’t turn around. Don’t—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone worried, Connor's mentality is definitely at the same place as the other teens in this fic, but it is also programmed to to age normally up to a certain point in adulthood. He is not made like the YK series in canon, where they are designed to stay mentally child-like indefinitely. There is a reason for this, but we'll get there. ;)
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](http://roboxcop.tumblr.com) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](http://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)!


	3. Part I, August 17th-18th 2028 (Hank)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is strategic posting lol? This is sort of a relationship building chapter so. A little bit filler.
> 
> As a reminder Sumo is, much like the officers of the DPD, someone that we set aside for possible future installments in this universe. He just felt like Hank's adult dog? It didn't seem right to make him the Anderson family pet when we had plans for Hank's adulthood in the works. But the Andersons are a dog family, and so an OC dog was born. 
> 
> Also we've tried not to make many OC's. Not unless they're like...the Andersons or Markus's mom (who may not even show up). So fun game: try to figure out who named characters (named, specifically) that aren't widely recognizable are. You can even go back and do it. Some of them, like Mrs. Shawn, are super hard bc the character doesn't have a name or model number to work with. We haven't even really described Mrs. Shawn yet so. That one may be tough lol.
> 
> I'll give you one: Mr. Graham is the dead dude at the Eden Club.

**August 17th, 2028**

Hank had forgotten how much he loved the drive home from school. The rough road beneath him shaking out the torpor in his bones. A heady focus on the other cars keeping his mind from wandering. Sharp wind blowing away the stagnancy of the day.

By the time he gets home, the leftover aches have fallen away. That damn blood blister still hurts like a bitch, though. He stares at the dark spot of blood beneath his skin. He’d been distracted at the time. He knows that old clip always causes him trouble, but Connor’s face disappearing into that car had just…

“Fuck,” Hank groans to no one but himself in the cavernous garage. He sucks the tip of his finger like it will help the sting as he hangs his helmet on the cluttered coat rack of dog leashes and umbrellas and hats that never get worn.

Kurgan, wearer of aforementioned leashes, is currently clawing at the door in a desperate attempt to dig through metal and wood to get to Hank.

“Alright, alright. Calm your tits,” Hank tells him, even as he knows the dog will neither listen nor heed him. The sound of his keys jangling against one another makes Kurgan even more desperate in his scratching, whimpers joining the racket in pitiful little waves. It would break Hank’s heart if he didn’t know better.

“Hey there, Kurgan,” Hanks says, voice verging on a coo as he pushes open the door and kneels to pet the hulking mass of fur and licks. “Guess I’m the first one home, huh?”

He gets to his feet while Kurgan follows, happy for the company. The German Shepard had served as a police dog before he was adopted by the Andersons. By Cole, specifically. He was the one who chose Kurgan after all, and that choice went far beyond the adoption process. Kurgan was _his_ dog. Everyone knew that, even now. Hank remembers Sally saying once, when Kurgan was suffering through a melancholy and laguid mourning after Cole’s death, that the dog would forget eventually. Animals view death differently, she’d said. Hank doesn’t believe Cole could be that forgettable to anyone. Regardless of species.

After he lets Kurgan out to do his business in the yard and refills his food and water, Hank helps himself to a package of pop-tarts from the pantry. He opens the crinkling, silver wrapping as he makes his way upstairs, taking a large bite out of the delicious, cinnamon flavored pastry before he’s even reached the second floor landing. He can practically hear his oldest sister Meg’s horrified gasp—miles away in scenic Hawaii—at the sight of the untoasted treat.

Throwing his backpack down onto his desk, Hank crashes onto the messy pile of pillows and blankets on his bed. He allows himself to deflate with a long exhale, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he sinks into the mattress.

Something is twisted up in his pocket.

He pulls the bunched up fabric out of his vintage jeans, sitting up to inspect it for a moment. It’s Connor’s goofy-ass tie. Hank had meant to return it, but each time he’d spoken to Connor, he somehow just...forgot. From a distance, it has a faint shimmer. Up close, though, Hank can see a pattern to it. Simple, metallic diamonds that look like scales.

 _Whatever_ , he thinks as he tosses the tie onto his nightstand next to what’s left of his pop-tarts. He can give it back to him tomorrow. He shares classes with the kid after all.

Hank falls back down against his bed, trying his damnedest not to get too comfortable. Kurgan leaps up onto the open comforter next to him, mattress dipping beneath his weight. He’s not supposed to be up here—and by the look of his sad, wet eyes as he peers at Hank from where he’s rested his snout on his front paws, he knows it too—but it’s a queen-size so there’s plenty of room. Hank doesn’t mind.

Why didn’t he give the tie back, anyway? Probably the same reason he clipped his finger. Or something similar at least. Connor had looked so fucking bummed when he loaded up into his mom’s car. What kid his age is upset to _leave_ school?

Hank sighs and kicks off his shoes. Brings the blankets up around him in defeat. Kurgan wins this round. He’ll just rest here. Just for a few minutes.

.

Hank’s eyes shoot open at a series of loud knocks on his open bedroom door and Sally’s voice calling him into wakefulness. Again.

It takes his mind a moment to catch up from the whiplash of being yanked out of a deep but very impromptu nap. The half darkened room and street lights shining through his window tell him that he’s been out for far longer than intended. He still feels fucking drained. Kurgan has retreated from his spot on the bed. Coward.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Sally continues from where she’s leaning in his doorway. “Dinner’s ready.”

He hustles down the stairs, the smell of Bryan’s BBQ Wings hitting him around the time he reaches the living room. Their house is no stranger to take out for dinner, but his parents always try to plate it up nice regardless.

Sally is miles ahead of him. She’d left before he even had a chance to get up, her plate already piled with far too many french fries. Way more than her share. He hopes whoever ordered accounted for her potato gluttony.

Livia is the first to notice or at least address him. She’s in the kitchen, pulling the hot sauce out of the fridge. There’s an expectant smile on her face.

“So? Can I ask?” she begins.

“Ask what?” Hank doesn’t let on that he’s honestly too groggy to read between the lines. His inflection leans more toward teasing.

“How was school?” she clarifies. She places the glass bottle on the table where Wade’s already helping himself to buffalo wings.

“Oh.” Hank hesitates as he settles into his chair. He had almost forgotten that this was...a thing. “Fine? First day is just a bunch of introductory stuff, cause nobody’s ready to work yet.”

“So no trouble?”

“No trouble,” Hank reassures. He pauses for a few moments before adding, “We got a new kid in our grade. Had to show him around cause Lucy’s got me by the balls like that.”

“Charming.” Livia gives him a wry look. “What’s his name?”

“Connor. Stern, I think?” Hank tells her. He attempts an even, neutral tone. Like he doesn’t really care one way or another. Casual. Just a new student. Interesting, right?

Sally reaches across Hank’s plate for the hot sauce instead of just asking like a civilized person.

“Is he cute?” she asks, cutting straight to the quick. Hank literally hates her.

“He’s a little young for you,” he sneers.

“You’re deflecting.” Sally’s smirk is now a full blown grin around a bite of french fry. Hank flips her the bird.

“Wait,” Wade finally speaks up, his adoration of buffalo wings no longer holding his attention. “Who's cute?”

“Hank’s new friend,” Sally replies. All smug and self satisfied.

“Nah, it’s not like that.” Hank tries to keep the inkling of bitterness from coloring his voice as he explains, “He made friends with Markus pretty much immediately.”

“Who’s Markus?” Wade asks, his eyes darting between all three of them. Sometimes, it’s like his powers of observation switch off when he removes the badge at the end of the day. Or at least numb. Livia’s don’t, though.

“Wade, honey, keep up.” She only looks a little exasperated as she explains, “Carl Manfred’s kid. He’s got his own group of friends. They’re ‘popular’, whatever that means.”

She indicates the quotations around ‘popular’ with two fingers on her left hand and the chicken wing in her right.

“You still haven’t said if he’s cute or not,” Sally tries again, still sticking to her guns between bites of food.

“He’s…” Hank trails off, bringing his glass of ice water to his lips. He rolls his eyes a little as he takes a sip as though it’s nuisance to even find the right words.

The honest answer would be: yeah, sure. He’s fucking cute, alright. His pouts could get whatever he wanted out of Hank with just a little bit of time and the right circumstances. Hank has his damn tie upstairs, and he’s already found himself wanting to work out all the little cogs that make Connor tick.

He’s cute and kind of gorgeous, and like _hell_ is Hank ever going to say any of that to his sister.

He settles on, “He’s goofy looking,” with a shrug and hopes that the lie is buried just right.

It’s not. Sally’s smile blooms until it’s nearly splitting her face in two, and Liv has a knowing look in her eye even as she reprimands her. A red heat that has nothing to do with the spicy, wing sauce claws up the back of Hank’s neck.

Wade, at least, doesn’t seem to notice at all. His attention is focused on something in his hand just beneath the table. Hank would put money on it being that app that he’s been obsessed with leveling up lately.

The focus on Hank doesn’t last for long, though. He tells his parents about needing a note from a psychiatrist—his mother informs him she’ll call Dr. Ward first thing in the morning—and rattles off his official class schedule.

The subject quickly volleys from Sally to Liv and back again. Sally has her new job at a clothing store, and her day was filled with listening to soccer moms try to get more discounts than she can give them and her sleazy co-worker who’s one wrong move away from sexual harassment paperwork being filed against him.

Liv’s stories are always riddled with too many bodily fluids for normal dinner conversation, but Hank and Sally have grown up with that sort of talk. Cast iron stomachs, the both of them. Wade always waves for her to stop if things get too graphic, anyway.

Wade doesn’t say much of anything at all. It’s not entirely unusual. He’s a quiet man by nature, and the personalities that orbit him always come off much stronger than he can compete with. Hank figures he has trouble getting a word in edgewise sometimes. Still though, he usually has some little anecdote. There’s always a dumb kid pulling shit on Wade’s shift. An idiot who called in the renter above him for little more than existing. Delinquents smoking on dangerous machinery. A runner who might have gotten away if he hadn’t caught his belt loop on some fencing and pantsed himself.

Nothing today, though.

Hank has dish washing duty with him after they’ve finished eating. Sally and Liv put on some horror show that they’ve been keeping up with religiously lately, volume up high so they can hear the dialogue in the quiet scenes. The couch is far enough from the open floor kitchen and dining room that Hank knows he can talk about whatever he likes with Wade without being overheard.

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the single bowl sink. It’s a bit of a snug fit what with Hank taking after his father when it comes to size, but Wade has to shift a lot in order to pack the dishes into the washer. It isn’t so bad. More cozy than cramped.

“Everything alright at work?” Hank asks as he passes a rinsed plate off to Wade. He’s trying not to be too conspicuous with his curiosity, hoping to land somewhere in the realm of general courtesy.

Wade hums thoughtfully as he slides the dish into a spot that Hank can already tell he’s going to have to shift around when they get to the pans from breakfast. He’s making that noise like he does when he’s trying to decide whether to tell Hank something or not.

“Had kind of a rough week at the station,” he decides without looking up at Hank. There’s a shape like an upside-down ‘v’ between his eyebrows.

“Yeah?” Hank prods, watching Wade even as he takes a sponge to a handful of forks. Wade twists his wedding ring thoughtfully.

“Gotta new drug on the streets. A real bad one. Hits ‘em hard, coming and going.”

“Shit.” Hank hands Wade the silverware. Wade doesn’t even give him a reproachful glance for the curse which...can’t be good, really.

“They’re calling it Red Ice. Had a lot of theft cases cropping up for those Chloe and Rachel droids. Turns out that the uh,” Wade waves the wet forks in his hand around, searching for the right word. A few drops of soapy water fleck the counter. “The blue stuff that keeps ‘em going? Apparently if you cook that just right and mix in some other things, you get something that’ll get you high.”

“That’s...inventive,” Hank tries. He doesn’t feel qualified to judge, really. At least he always remembered to stay away from the hard shit. Red Ice sounds like the hard shit. Maybe harder if his dad’s concern is warranted. They’d always talked about that, his dad and him. Weed’s legal and so is alcohol. Most of the stuff that’s not is that way for a reason. Didn’t mean that Hank hadn’t...dabbled.

There’s a pause while Wade moves the plates to a new arrangement in order to fit the pan Liv had cooked bacon in this morning. Hank has a feeling that isn’t the only reason for Wade’s silence though. He’s measuring his words. He isn’t a man who speaks without thinking.

“Look,” he says finally, leaning back against the counter so that he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Hank again. “I was your age once, believe it or not. I did some stupid things—”

“ _You_ did?” Hank interrupts with a hint of humor. Wade has been a straight laced sort of guy his entire life, and they all know it. He was always the brother to come running to mother when the others got too rowdy.

“Alright maybe not me. You’re mother did, and she turned out fine.” He motions to Liv who they can see through the half-wall with her feet all up on the sofa. She smacks Sally on the calf with a smile. Probably for tucking her icicle toes under Liv’s ass.

“What I mean,” Wade continues, “is that...I don’t expect you to be perfect. But maybe if one of those boys you hang out with offers you some of that, you take a pass?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hank agrees, looking down at the glass in his hand rather than meeting his dad’s serious gaze. He’d like to be mad about it. Tries to work up a lather over Wade singling him out on this. He can’t find the energy or desire for it, though. Wade had been too reasonable in his approach. “Sure, I think I can remember that. Should it ever come up.”

“You’re a good kid, Hank.” Wade smiles all wide and bright and pats him on the shoulder with a damp hand. Hank doesn’t know if he agrees with the sentiment. It’s nice to hear, though. “Now what’s this about a new kid at school?”

“God, Dad. Not you, too,” Hank groans. Wade laughs, and it feels warm in Hank’s chest.

.

**August 18th, 2028**

Hank sleeps dreamlessly that night. There’s no sign of his ever present haunting or the fractured memories on repeat. He’d been tired by the time he crawled into bed, though he didn’t realize how deep in his bones it was until his eyes fluttered open from the deep and the dark and the empty at the sound of his alarm. There’s still that familiar wave that still hits him, even well after a year.

Oh, yeah. Cole’s dead.

He doesn’t dwell on that realigned reality for too long. He jams his finger against the stop button on his alarm and lies back in bed. Day two and already he’s tired of it.

He glances over at his door handle where he had hung the familiar, silver patterned tie before settling under his comforter for the night. Well, he thinks, maybe he’s not tired of _everything_.

With no hangover in sight this time around, it feels easier to roll straight into his morning routine. He still wishes he could crawl back into the cocoon of his blankets, but then again, he can’t remember the last time he felt rested in the first place.

Usually, he just pulls something clean—or occasionally only _mostly_ clean when things were really bad—out of his closet. Today, he gives himself a moment to root around, wanting to find something a step above ‘smells okay’. No reason, of course.

He goes through three different t-shirts, settling for an army green one, before he’s satisfied enough to head downstairs.

He grabs a purple shirt on his way out. Maybe that would be better.

There’s no ominous smell of eggs or turkey bacon nor any sign of either of his parents when he reaches the first floor. Business as usual has resumed. Both Wade and Livia have long since begun their work day, and Hank figures Sally is still fast asleep since hers hasn’t started yet. He keeps his breakfast simple before heading out, making sure to give Kurgan a cuddle and a treat as he does.

He forgets all about the tie.

.

“Good morning, Anderson,” a cheerful and breathy voice greets Hank while he’s busy securing his bike. Hank pauses his movements to face Connor. From the corner of his eye, he can see the sleek, black car that had picked Connor up yesterday driving away.

“Morning.” Hank smirks back but with a lingering air of disbelief. How anyone can be this chipper so early, he doesn’t have a fucking clue. “Came back for more, huh?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” Connor tells him, his eyes jumping distractedly across the faces of other students in the parking lot. Hank finishes locking up his motorcycle and begins moving in the same direction as the streams and uneven currents of classmates that pour from all sides. Connor’s brow furrows slightly as he continues, “Or a glutton for learning? According to some, they mean the same thing. Did you have a good evening?”

“It was chicken wing night.” There’s an air of pride in Hank’s smile. Connor looks at him with a confused tilt to his head.

“Is that good?”

“Chicken wing night’s always good. How ‘bout you?”

“It was quiet. Yesterday was draining.” Connor trails off, and Hank wishes he could pick apart his tone. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it, though. There seems to be something vaguely cagey lingering just under the surface, but...even if that assumption is correct, he doesn’t exactly have the right to Connor’s secrets. Besides, maybe Connor just had trouble relating their lifestyles. From the brief glimpse of Connor’s mom that Hank had been able to catch, she didn’t seem like the chicken wing type.

“It gave me time to think about your fashion advice,” Connor continues.

His current look tells Hank that he took those words to heart.  Connor’s pants are a dark-wash jean this time, and his sweater is gray and light enough for such a mild day, shirt sleeves all pushed up around his elbows. There’s no sign of a tie.

Hank remembers the one he took. It is, shamefully, still on the knob of his bedroom door at home.

“Learning how to blend in well I see.” For a moment Hank feels something close to guilt. He doesn’t want to tell anyone how they should dress. Connor rocks it with effortless charm, regardless. Hank changes the subject before he can dwell too deeply on that thought. “Enjoy your quiet nights while you can. Soon you’re gonna be crammed with homework and praying for death.”

Hank lingers when they reach Connor’s locker. He shuffles his feet a bit on the linoleum, awkward and unsure whether or not he’s supposed to leave. Connor turns from his tiny, slitted space to face him.

“Can I sit with you at lunch?” he asks, direct as can be. Connor’s question gets a snort out of Hank in some knee-jerk reaction, but when he sees Connor still looking at him with an expectant seriousness on his face, he figures avoidance is the best route.

“What about Markus and his, uh, merry company? Thought you’d be sitting with them.” He doesn’t mean for his words to come out as sulky as they do. His heart beats a little faster at the memory of yesterday’s lunch and burying himself in music. Distracting himself with Knights of the Black Death as they roared about the rise of Eldritch Gods so that he could ignore the twisting knife in his gut. Not that it had hurt seeing Connor go with Markus. He’s his own person, making his own choices. Markus is perfect. Of course Connor would choose him.

“I share a class with him before lunch,” Connor explains with a small shrug of one shoulder. “He offered to introduce me to his friends. He was nice to me.”

Connor’s honesty soothes the tension in Hank’s belly. He forgets that Connor only has his own experience to go by and not the years that Hank’s shared with the kids in this school.

“Why don’t we both sit with them?” Connor adds after a moment of thought. Hank lets out a bitter laugh at the innocence to Connor’s question. “Everyone there is very friendly. I’m sure they’d make room.”

Hank fidgets under the sincerity in Connor’s gaze and scratches the stubble on his jaw out of sheer nerves. “We don’t really hang out in the same circles.”

“Oh…”

This is it, Hank thinks. This is the part where Connor will invent some excuse, some reason to ditch him. He wouldn’t have to think that hard. Hank’s a fuck up, and Markus is...the golden boy. Hank can’t even be pissed at him, because he’s so fucking nice. So yeah. He wouldn’t be able to blame Connor for making his apologies and choosing the company of someone like Markus and his friends. Hell, between himself and them, he’d pick them too.

Instead, Connor smiles that dimpled little smile at Hank and says, “Well I’ll sit with you then,” as though were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hank swallows around a tightness in his chest. Indigestion, probably. He shouldn’t have toasted his pop-tart this morning. Meg doesn’t know shit about what tastes good. He clears his throat and hitches his bag higher onto his shoulder even though it was perfectly fine to begin with.

“Sure,” Hank starts. Gruff and awkward. “Whatever. Your fuckin’ funeral.”

“I doubt it.” Connor doesn’t look even the slightest bit cowed as he shuts his locker door with a loud clang. “I like to think I’m a little harder to kill than that.”

“Overconfidence will get ya, you know?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Connor replies and then has the nerve, the audacity, the absolute fucking _gall_ to wink at him. Actually, goddamn _wink_. What the hell. “Is you’re locker nearby?”

“Uh,” Hank starts like the articulate fucker that he is. “Yeah, it’s...over there—,” he thumbs lazily down the row of pale blue lockers on the opposite side of the hallway from Connor’s, “—but I don’t—I don’t need it yet. I have to go upstairs for my first class, though.”

“Oh.” Connor pulls a sort of half pout that feels like it could ruin Hank’s already fucked to hell life at full blast. “I’ll see you in third period though, right?”

“Course.”

“And at lunch?” Connor adds. Hank tries not to let that little flutter of hope grow into anything with wide wings that could fly away from him. There’s a few hours left until lunch yet. Anything could happen between now and then. Connor is so certain in the moment. Doesn’t mean he’ll feel the same by the time fourth period ends.

“Yeah, sure,” Hank says, trying to hide his doubt. Connor’s sharp eyes probe him with a sort of intelligence that makes Hank shift on his feet. He’s not sure Connor’s the type of person to be fooled by easy misdirections. By the same magic tricks that put off family members at Christmas or Thanksgiving.

Doesn’t mean Hank can’t give it a shot.

.

Hank’s first period is English 12, and he has it with Simon Phillips. Or...he thinks it’s Simon.

Yeah. Yeah it’s Simon. Bluer eyes, like Connor had said, and wider, too. Sweeter. He used to wear glasses, Hank remembers, before he started dating Markus halfway through junior year.

Point is, Hank recognized him in class the day before, but he certainly didn’t pay him much mind. Simon sat in the front row with an attentive gaze. Hank took the first seat his butt had landed in. He was late as hell, and he still had Connor’s tie in his pocket.

Today is different. Today, Hank isn’t late. He’s early, in fact. In a good mood, too, for reasons that he doesn’t want to think about. The middle row seems more appropriate when he has the options. Even at his best, he was never the kid who sat up in the teacher’s splash zone. Last year, he would have chosen the back.

Simon, it seems, has arrived even before Hank. Hank can see him shuffling around with his bag in the front row for some reason. Apparently, so that he can carry it with him as he moves—oh. As he moves toward Hank.

Oh god no.

“Hi,” Simon greets as he settles into desk next to him. His voice is somewhere between genial and detached in a way that worries Hank almost as much as it confuses him.

“Hey,” he replies, cautiously.

“It’s ‘Hank’, right?”

Hank’s brow furrows. Simon is well aware of what his name is. Hank’s answer comes out like he’s questioning the truth of it himself. “Yes?”

“Right.” Simon swallows with nervous energy, eyes blinking rapidly for a moment. He’s psyching himself up for something, Hank realizes. “I’m Simon.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Hanks interrupts before Simon can quite finish that last ‘n’ in his name.

“Right,” Simon says again. _Spit it out, kid,_ Hank thinks. _Take the plunge._ “So...North mentioned you and Connor seem...close.”

“I’ve known him for a day, so I don’t know if ‘close’ is the right word but sure.”

“I just...I don’t know him that well, either,” Simon tries, haltingly. His breath comes out heavier. “He’s sweet though, and I...wanna make sure you aren’t gonna be an asshole, I guess.”

“I’m sorry?” Whatever Hank had thought Simon was going to say—admittedly, he hadn’t had time to drum up many options—this wasn’t really it. Simon seems to have gotten past the hardest part, however, and the rest of his words come pouring out of him without much heed.

“Look you’re scary, and it’s taking a lot of my nerve to even talk to you right now—”

Hank scoffs, “Congrats, braveheart.”

“—but I feel like Connor might—might be the type of person that someone like you could...hurt.”

“What?”

“I’ve just...been there, and it can be—it can be damaging. I—”

“Are you saying you’re—I don’t fucking know,” Hank thinks that he’s put the pieces together well enough, even despite Simon’s vague phrasing. He knows about Simon, and he knows about Markus, and he knows enough to get a peek of the bigger the picture here. This is what he gets for putting up with Gary’s shit. “Are you saying that you’re fucking ‘gaydar’ or whatever is pinging on Connor, and you think I might be a homophobe?”

“I’m not like Markus, I know,” Simon trudges along like he hadn’t even spoken, “but I will use my privilege if I need to.”

“Jesus, what is the fucking deal with this kid. Can his jizz cure cancer or what?”

“Things are good at this school for the community. That doesn’t mean—”

“I’m bi,” Hank announces, a touch too loudly. Some of the other students that have filtered in snap their eyes toward him before returning to what they were doing. His neck flushes, not that he gives a shit if they know or not. He repeats, quieter this time, “I’m bi.”

“Oh,” Simon utters after a long moment. A little like a whisper really. As if Hank’s tone had rubbed off on him for a moment like transfer paper.

“Yeah.”

“I—,” Simon starts, clumsy and uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Silence stretches out between them. The first bell rings obnoxiously overhead as the half-filled class shuffles around in their seats. Hank mulls over Simon’s words, churning them around in his head as he taps his pen against his wooden desk in agitation.

“I’m fucking scary?” he blurts out suddenly. Bursting the tangible awkwardness like a bubble in the air. “Really?”

“You are!” Simon replies. “You gave that kid last year a concussion—”

“Yeah, well, he fucking deserved it.”

“—and you went to _prison—_ ”

“I didn’t _go_ to prison! They didn’t even put me in the tank!”

“—plus you hang out with Pedro and Gary.”

“You guys are perfectly fine with them when you need alcohol or some shit for your little parties.”

Simon opens his mouth and then closes it, at least a little chastised by this point. It’s fucking true. Hank knows full well they’re fine with Pedro and Gary getting their hands dirty when it’s for their own benefit. Sure, Simon may not be as deeply entrenched within the In Crowd dynamic, but he moved from boinking the chess team to boinking the quarterback around Christmas last year. He’s been to plenty of parties by now.

“Fair,” Simon says, finally. Reluctantly.

“Yup.”

Simon looks around the classroom for an escape that doesn’t exist. Hank kind of hates him a little bit, but only in the sort of way that he’ll forget about by the time the class is over. Simon is a pretty nice kid on any other day. He’s probably the hardest of that group to really dislike, and that’s next to the second coming of Christ himself, Markus Manfred.

After a moment, Simon seems to realize that during their discussion all the remaining seats have filled up. It’s a core, at-level class after all. Most people take it.

“So I’m stuck sitting here, huh?” he asks with a resigned note in his voice.

“Looks like it.” Hank settles into his chair after a bit of a stretch. These desks are too fucking small. At least he can get some pleasure from Simon’s discomfort. “Here’s hoping the teach doesn’t decide to make this arrangement permanent, right?”

She does. Simon groans and hides his face in the cage of his arms where he’s folded them on the desk. Hank laughs. A single, jeering bark that earns him a stern look from the teacher.

Worth it.

He can’t help but feel a small note of disappointment when Simon rushes out the door before Hank is able to squeeze in one more tease. The kid spent the whole class beetroot red. He’s got to admit, it was amusing. He’s going to see Simon in sixth period for French, anyway.

Hank makes his way to Speech. Another member of Markus’s little In Crowd, North, happens to be in that class too now that he thinks of it. She sits comfortably along the middle, and Hank zones in on a seat at a respectable distance away. He’s not in the mood for any more attention from them. From anyone at all for that matter. He’d rather lay low. Keep to himself.

Time passes quickly enough, and North doesn’t even look his way throughout the entire class. He feels a bit silly for even worrying about it when all is said and done.

Afterward, Hank rushes to get to Criminal Investigation despite the busy hallways. He’s determined to make sure what happened yesterday doesn’t occur again. He’d spent the whole class thinking that if he’d only hurried his ass instead of fucking around...well. Not this time. He climbs the stairs two at a time and soon finds himself in the nearly empty classroom. Only a few students have pooled in.

Hank is barely through the threshold before he spots Connor in his periphery.

“You wouldn’t believe the number of people I had to fend off to keep it empty,” Connor tells him as he pulls his bag out of the seat to his right. He’s tucking it away when Hank approaches.

“Hoards of ‘em if it meant sitting next to you,” he shoots back before his brain can catch up with his mouth. He meant for it to come off a little acerbic, maybe even shitty in that humorous way that he talks with his friends. Instead, it sounds pretty blatantly flirtatious.

“I’m very selective,” Connor replies. Hank gives a self-derisive sort of chuckle as he takes out a few things for class. He expects there might be something close to work today.

Five minutes pass after the second bell, however, and there’s no sign of Mr. Graham. Five minutes becomes ten becomes fifteen. The longer the class is left unsupervised, the more the whispers change and grow into much louder murmurs.  

“How we gonna learn to fight crime with this sort of service?” Hank jokes as he shifts into a new position. He rolls his eyes lazily over to meet Connor’s gaze.

“Is that what you want to do?” Connor asks. He always sits so upright and proper like the goody-two-shoes that he absolutely is. Since when has Hank found shit like that endearing. “Fight crime?

“Hah. Maybe? Guess I used to. Now I just wanna graduate.”

“Is there a reason why you wouldn’t?” Connor’s question sounds almost innocent when he adds that slight tilt to his head. Hank huffs deprecatingly but says nothing. Not before Mr. Graham charges through the door.

“I know. I’m late,” he announces. The class hushes around the sound of his voice. “If you’re good, I’ll even tell you why.”

He has the smartboard up and running before he’s even removed his coat. Connor almost looks as annoyed as Hank is relieved by the interruption. They don’t get to share notes like they did in psych the day before despite the seating being situated in a much more optimal arrangement for it. The desks are grouped in clusters of two that are pressed flush together.

There are things to write down and reference, however. Still nothing too demanding. Mr. Graham makes it clear that come Monday they should be ready to hit the ground running.

With a few minutes left in the hour, Mr. Graham ends up indulging them in the reason for his tardiness. His dog locked him out.

“Hijinks ensued,” Graham tacks on at the end. It would be a lot more charming if he wasn’t such a self-satisfied ass.

“Kurgan does shit like that,” Hank finds himself saying as he and the rest of the class pack up their things once again. The bell rings overhead.

“Is that your dog?” Connor infers, and Hank wonders if he imagines the way that Connor seems to perk up the slightest bit.

“Technically he’s my—” Hank stops. His eyes find focus on the floor as he waits for Connor to lift his bag up onto his shoulder and slide smoothly to his feet. He curses that muscle memory for a split second before finishing, “—my family’s dog. Acts more like a baby giraffe than a retired police dog.”

“Another crime fighter?” Connor moves with him along the length of the desks, having to speak across the row until they meet at the front of the class. “He seems to take after his family.”

“The stories he would tell. He’s a good boy. Sometimes, I like him better than most people.”

“Hank?” Mr. Graham interrupts without getting up from his desk. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Hank’s stomach constricts into a knot instantaneously. He doesn’t know what he possibly could have done to earn this attention already. Was outing himself in front of the whole class disruptive, maybe? Would Mr. Graham even know about that?

“Um…Cooper, is it?” Mr. Graham asks, looking past Hank. Hank hadn’t even realized that Connor was still lingering in the doorway behind him until he turns to check the direction of their teacher’s gaze.

“My name is Connor. I’m new.”

“Yeah, sure.” Mr. Graham’s tone is dismissive, and it really pisses Hank off for whatever reason. “Listen, Connor. I’d like to talk to Hank alone for a moment, please.”

Hank gives Connor an apologetic look. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll wait,” Connor says instead. Stubborn. He rounds the frame of the door, and Hank can see the soft cotton of the arm of Connor’s sweater as Connor proceeds to linger just on the other side of the threshold. A reminder that he’s there.

“Hank,” Mr. Graham carries on, his voice sharp. Hank isn’t sure if he doesn’t notice that Connor hasn’t gone far or if he just doesn’t care. He certainly doesn’t try to keep his voice any lower. “I don’t want any trouble from you this year, understand?”

“Yeah, course,” Hank mutters. He shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.  

“I mean it. Lucy twisted my arm to keep you in my class. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Got it,” Hank grits out. He tacks on a curt, “Sir,” at the end, and he can’t help the gruffness in his tone. His cheeks feel hot. The back of his neck, too. His whole body is aflame with embarrassment and guilt. All the while he’s hyper-aware of Connor at a distance, unsure if he can hear the humiliation in Mr. Graham’s tone or if Hank is at least spared that.

They meet back up in the corridor. Hank is quiet and grumbly, and Connor seems to take a cue from his behavior. Their walk down the hall is silent. Connor keeps close to Hank before they have to part ways.

“He sounds self-righteous for someone who was outsmarted by his pet,” he tells Hank as they linger in that same spot where they’d separated the day prior. “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly?” Hank questions. There’s something like a ray of sunlight cutting through his mood even as he deliberately attempts to shadow it with dense, thunder clouds.

“English bulldogs are neither intelligent nor very tall,” Connor explains. “I severely doubt it has the capability of locking its owner out of their home.”

Hank’s brow furrows at the thought. Did Mr. Graham mention that it was a bulldog? Hank doesn’t remember that, but then he wasn’t paying that close of attention anyway. “You think he’s lying?”

“I know he’s lying,” Connor replies without an ounce of doubt in his voice. He doesn’t even emphasize the words like he’s trying to make a point. It’s just a matter of fact. Like Hank’s mother reciting her occupation as a nurse or his father saying that he doesn’t care for cursing or Sally calling Hank an idiot.

They part ways at the ‘T’ in the hallway, neither of them really needing frequent stops at the lockers throughout the day yet. Only a portion of the teachers have passed out books, and Connor doesn’t seem overburdened. Hank certainly isn’t, even if the English textbook is a fucking tome.

The teacher gives them _Calculus of a Single Variable_ in fourth period, and it’s just as bad. Luckily, Hank’s got the midday break, so he can take a more leisurely pace.

Pedro leans up against the cold metal beside him as Hank slides his literature book into his locker all crooked and awkward on top of the mathematics one. He needs to buy a shelf. He’ll probably never get around to it.

“You hook up with that Wen chick on Wednesday?” Pedro asks without preamble. Hank might be unclear, at least for a moment, if Gary hadn’t raised the same question yesterday. Pedro hadn’t been around. Hank doesn’t know where he was, but he has a few guesses.

“Uh, no.” Hank doesn’t even glance over as he responds. He only just remembers ‘the Wen chick’ (Robin), and he’s fairly certain she doesn’t think much of him either. She was cute. Talked a whole lot about her carb count and her ex. Specifically. Not that he cared much when their mouths were otherwise occupied.

“Too drunk?” Pedro replies with a leer.

Hank rolls his eyes and slams his locker door shut. “No. I promised my mom I’d be home before midnight. Cause of school and shit.”

“Get her number?”

“Nah, not interested,” Hank tells him. His eyes skim across the faces in the cafeteria as they come around the corner. Not that he’s searching for anyone in particular. Just. Looking.

“Care if I, you know…” Pedro trails off suggestively. Hank waits for him to finish with bemused incredulity that can only come from knowing exactly what Pedro is getting at. “Next time we hang.”

“Knock yourself out.” Hank chuckles. Amazed. “Ain’t my call. I mean I assumed she had better taste but—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pedro laughs and shoves at his shoulder. Hank barely even budges on the spot.

They shoot the shit in the crowded lunch line, eventually loading up their brittle, plastic trays with shitty burgers and stale fries. Schools and hospitals. Two places that are supposed to take care of people the most. Two places with the worst fucking food.

They save a space for Gary—and one for that kid that Gary dragged along with him yesterday, just in case—as well as an extra. Hank wonders how pathetic he must be after doing the same thing the day before only to watch Connor trot off with Markus to sit with his friends. Connor belongs with them. Hank doesn’t know why he’s bothering with the illusion.

He’s about to call bullshit on the whole thing and yank his bag off of the otherwise empty chair, but then Connor is just...there. Haloed in the school’s harsh, fluorescent lighting.

“Is this seat for me?” he says as though he doesn’t already know the answer. As though maybe he honestly isn’t sure. Pedro’s head turns in confusion. He peers up at Connor like he’s the goddamn Pope who just walked into a whorehouse in full habit. When Hank glances toward the aisle, Markus is dawdling curiously. Hank is pretty sure he’s waiting to see if they’re going to let Connor sit. As if that were ever in question.

“Yeah,” Hank replies and then again because his voice was a little too soft the first time. “Yeah.”

Gary comes around from the other side, gait slower than usual as he puts his tray down with a careless clatter in the place across from Pedro. He’s alone today.

“Who’s this?” Gary plops down into the chair next to Hank inelegantly, pulling up too-large jeans by the thighs.

“My name is Connor,” Connor declaims. “I’m new here.”

A wave of amusement rushes through Hank at the introduction. “That your new motto?”

“Apparently,” Connor says through a what is very nearly a smile.

“We have Criminal Investigation together.” Hank’s eyes dart briefly to Pedro. It’s the easiest place for them to go without having to look away from Connor for too long. “And psych.”

“He’s also a terrible tour guide,” Connor teases.

“Principal Sibby got you by the balls, Hank?” Gary asks around a bite of his burger. Hank makes a mocking comment about how Gary is just jealous because no one wants to get within twenty feet of his dick. Pedro laughs. Gary tries to punch him from across the table but only succeeds in nearly tipping his lunch into his lap.

They mostly, but not entirely, ignore Connor. Not intentionally or with any hostility in mind. Hank is pretty sure they just don’t know what to do with the kid. They end up chatting between themselves and with some of the others that have taken up the end cap of the table. Hank can get quiet sometimes. They’re used to him hunkering down with headphones shoved into his ears.

“Do you like cherry tomatoes?” Connor asks at one point. Hank does. He ends up picking at Connor’s homemade lunch at Connor’s insistence and passing one of his earbuds across way so that Connor can listen.

Connor tells him, “It’s full of energy,” when Hank asks if he likes the music. Hank can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not. From anyone else, he might assume they were attempting to eschew answering without having to lie. From Connor, he isn’t so sure.

He doesn’t seem bothered by an occasional bout of silence nor does he object to Hank’s choice of band. He even chooses a couple of songs. Mostly because he likes the names of them.

Simon eventually sidles up before the bell rings, looking like Kurgan when he’s chewed up a shoe or pissed on the carpet. More often the former than the latter. Simon clearly nurses some lingering embarrassment. If Hank was a better person, he might attempt to soothe it.

“Hey, Simon,” he greets with a shit-eating grin.

Simon is too nice to even roll his eyes. “Hi, Hank.”

He ends up leaving with a hand wrapped around Connor’s upper arm, pulling him along behind him. Connor turns briefly to looks back at Hank with some amount of confusion at the entire exchange. Hank only offers a shrug in return.

“So Connor, huh?” Gary begins from behind Hank and, fuck. He was just watching Connor go with a dumbass look on his face, wasn’t he? Pedro and Gary are scrutinizing him with a look of amusement and something unreadable on their faces, respectively.

Hank hopes that a bored as fuck expression tinged with some level of irritation is enough to get Gary to quit while he’s still ahead.

Gary, unfortunately, never cared much for social cues.

“What?” he defends with that smug sort of tone. He makes it sound like he’s only joking, but something more insidious lurks beneath the surface. “Just didn’t figure you’d be into twinks.”

“You gotta stop saying shit like that,” Hank tells him. He climbs out of his seat, grabbing the rest of his trash while Gary carries on in his wake.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means shut the fuck up, Gary.” Hank really isn’t in the mood to get angry. He’s already thinking about Connor leaving with Simon more than he should. Maybe it’s because of this morning, but Hank can’t stop conjuring up what other stories Simon might _think_ that he knows. “Don’t act like knowing me gets you a free pass to be a shithead.”

“Free pass?” Gary questions. His voice lilts with disbelief. “You know I’m just fucking with you, dude. I don’t care about that gay shit.”

“Christ, you ever hear yourself talk?” Pedro cuts in as soon as he manages to come up alongside them. Hank does his best to drown them out as they make their way to the next class. Gary’s that one friend that, for whatever reason, Hank just can’t seem to shake.

Well. That’s not entirely true. Hank knows the reason. He’s just known Gary for too damn long, is all.

No, that isn’t it either. Gary is an easy supply of alcohol and other recreational substances that alter one’s state of mind. God, he’s such a piece of shit, though.

They settle down into their seats for Earth Science, and Hank tunes in long enough to hear him blustering, “Look, I’m just saying! He’s apparently friends with Simon fuckin’ Phillips. We all know that kid fucked his way through the dudes on the mathletes or whatever. He went from blowing nerds to blowing the most popular dude in school. If that ain't social climbing, I don't know what is.”

“I think you’ve been watching too many period dramas, man,” Pedro scoffs moments before the teacher’s entrance begins the second half of Hank’s school day. It already feels like a fucking drag.

.

By the time Hank sees Simon again for French class, Gary’s words have lingered and twisted into guilt until he can’t even find it in him to offer up another shit-eating grin. Simon’s smile, on the other hand, is paired with a cocked eyebrow that reminds Hank of his sister when she’s relishing in knowing something that he doesn’t. Drives him crazy.

Markus occupies the seat to Simon’s right. His mismatched eyes follow his boyfriend’s gaze to where it meets Hank’s. They share a nod. That’s the extent of their friendship these days.

When class finishes, Hank’s paranoid overthinking hasn’t improved. The only thing that distracts him, even for a moment, is finding Connor standing outside the doorway the moment that Hank walks out.

“I saw you come in after Simon,” he tells Hank by way of explanation. He shifts his bag, and the collar of his sweater slides so that it’s ever so slightly lopsided on his neck. There’s another of those dark freckles on the crest of his collarbone that Hank hadn’t seen before. “I thought we could walk together.”

Hank tears his eyes away from the exposed skin on the turn of Connor’s shoulder. “Only if we make a detour past my locker.”

“Book collection growing?” Connor asks, agreeing wordlessly as they weave through the crowd.

“Just in time for the weekend.” Hank hoists his backpack to adjust the weight. The sarcasm behind his false enthusiasm drips through enough to make Connor laugh. It’s a lovely sound. All soft around the edges like it’s wrapped in velvet. He should do it more often.

When they reach Hank’s locker, Connor shuffles on the spot. “How do you know Gary?”

“Our moms worked at the same hospital. They helped each other babysit. Now, I don’t need a sitter, and Gary’s got me.” Hank shuts his locker harder than intended and faces Connor. “Why?”

“Simon doesn’t like him,” Connor says, so frank that Hank can’t even be mad. “I felt bad, because he’s your friend.”

Hank lets out a derisive huff of laughter, his gut twisting up at the idea of Simon talking about him to Connor. Connor’s head does that annoyingly adorable thing where it cocks ever so slightly in confusion.

“Don’t feel too bad for Gary. He brings it on himself. Can’t keep his damn mouth shut,” Hank explains. He hesitates for a moment, looking briefly down as his scuffed boots, before continuing. “I’m sure Simon had plenty to say about us.”

Connor’s clever, brown eyes observe Hank from his periphery, but he’s too much of a coward to meet them. “He spent most of the time bemoaning that he won’t be able to see Markus this weekend.”

“It must be tough being First Gentleman of the school,” Hank scoffs. He feels lame about it even as the words are leaving his mouth. He can’t stop them though, his wounded pride thrumming underneath his skin.

“He also mentioned that you punched someone.”

Kid is blunt as a hammer to the face, huh?

“Ah.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.” Hank can feel his stomach turn and his lunch with it. He doesn’t even consider lying. He could curse out Simon, but what would be the point? Connor’s bound to start hearing shit.

By the time they reach the classroom, Hank is sullen. He sits in one of the seats near the back with Connor not far behind.

“What did they do? You don’t strike me as someone who goes looking for fights, Anderson,” Connor states. He’s got a look on his face, familiar and cocky. Hank would call him out on it if he wasn’t right.

“He was showing off this...fuckin’ badge,” Hank grits out, the words still causing anger to claw up his throat even half a year later. It’s just as hard to look Connor in the eye as it is to form the words, so he focuses on pulling things out of his bag. “I get a glimpse, and it’s a goddamn Nazi patch. Loved talking about his ‘freedom of speech’, too. Like he’s never heard the ancient proverb, ‘Talk shit; get hit.’”

By the time he finishes, his desk is more ‘prepared’ than he’s ever bothered to make it in the past. Connor’s steady gaze hasn’t left him the entire time.

“Good,” Connor says after a moment. Decidedly. He settles back into his seat with an expression that almost looks prim as he faces the front of the room. “Fuck him.”

Coming out of Connor’s mouth, the swear shocks all the tension out of Hank. It punches a choked off chuckle out of him. Connor’s brow knots up into a frown. “Simon said you got suspended.”

Hank crosses his arms and shrugs with a tight, almost bitter smile.

Truth is, he knows he sort of backed Lucy into a corner with that one. He’d already been acting out. Causing trouble. And to be honest, he hadn’t meant to deck Michael quite so hard. He doesn’t feel _guilty_ about it, but he did give him a concussion which seems excessive in retrospect. Whoops?

Michael got suspended too, in the end, for wearing a symbol that promoted hate speech. The other students don’t seem to remember that part as much. It’s probably because the kid’s parents pulled him from school after the incident. Hank stayed here. Continued spiraling. It makes a much more interesting story.

He doesn’t get to tell Connor all of this, though. The bell rings, and the teacher starts passing out books, and the moment falls between the cracks.

At one point, Connor jots a little note in the margin of his notebook, and when Hank glances over, it reads, _“Do you think the teachers realize that all of the textbooks are so horribly out of date?”_

Hank has to scrub a hand across his mouth to hide a smile. All those worries and insecurities that have gnawed away at his insides since his talk with Simon suddenly feel sated in his belly. There’s a safety in Connor’s bluntness. Even Daniel’s glare from a couple rows over can’t dampen it. Strangely, North only seems...curious.

Connor talks to the both of them before leaving with Hank when class is over. A part of Hank still feels guilty that Connor isn’t walking with them. Going to their lockers between classes. Sitting in the seats next to theirs instead of at the back of class, because Hank was feeling shitty.

Another part of him is selfish for the company.

“Hey so, uh,” Hank starts, haltingly, after they’ve both dropped their things at their lockers. Hank isn’t hauling that psych book on his back through the entire motorcycle ride home if he doesn’t have to. “I didn’t think to, uh...to ask yesterday, but we could maybe swap numbers? You know in case you wanted to talk. Or for school stuff. Whatever.”

Connor’s brow twitches into a confused furrow, face appearing puzzled. “Numbers?”

“Yeah.” Hank clears his throat a little. He’s not nervous. He has no reason to be nervous. He’s just asking for a friends digits. He’s done this with every friend that he’s ever had. Though now he’s wondering when or how, because suddenly he can’t quite recall. “You know. Phone numbers?”

Connor blinks once, and his expression clears into understanding. “Of course!”

“Here,” Hank says. He reaches into his back pocket with easy familiarity, switching the sound back on without even thinking of it as he unlocks the screen. “Hit me.”

Connor rattles off the numbers after only a brief moment of pause—(313) 248-3175—and gives an easy grin when Hank holds up the camera with a casual, “Smile.”

It’s sort of accidentally coy and shy and of course so adorable that it makes Hank want to die a little bit inside. He tells Connor, “You can send one you like better, later. If you want.”

He types out a little, “Hey,” and sends it to the new contact that’s labeled simply as ‘Connor’. He couldn’t think of anything clever outside of cutesy little things that he’d use for someone he met at a party and didn’t intend to see more than once. Maybe twice. It doesn’t seem right to do the same for Connor.

Connor has to shuffle around in the pockets of his backpack before finding his own phone. Hank’s never seen a kid his age who doesn’t know where their cell is at all fucking times. Who doesn’t keep it tucked away in a pocket of their jeans or sweats or skirt if the designer was smart enough to include them. Most are these days.

Then again, Connor isn’t most kids.

When Hank checks his phone after parking his bike in the garage, he already has a message from ‘Connor’ lighting up his screen.

 **Connor** (02:35 PM)  
_Do you think Mr. Graham’s dog likes him?_

Hank smiles, and he doesn’t even mind that it fucking hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't call Connor's fake number lol. It, very likely, belongs to some poor unsuspecting person and is just a reference to Connor's serial number. 
> 
> Up next: a little bit of time skip and a dash of plot!
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️


	4. Part I, August 18th-September 14th 2028 (Connor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of texting at the beginning of the chapter! Little bit of a time montage, if you will, but then back to regular style for the rest!

**August 18th, 2028**

**Hank** (06:34 PM)  
_So what you got planned for the weekend? Hookers? Blow? Hookers on blow?_

 **Connor** (06:35 PM)  
_While we’ve only known each other for two days, I’m offended that you’d think I’d do such a thing._

 **Connor** (06:35 PM) _  
_ _At least without inviting you._

 **Hank** (06:37 PM)  
_The hookers cancelled huh_

 **Connor** (06:37 PM)  
_A brilliant deduction, Anderson._

 **Hank** (06:40 PM)  
_Gotta let off steam somehow right? Fuck knows I do_

 **Connor** (06:41 PM)  
_Is school stressing you out already?_

 **Hank** (06:44 PM)  
_I’m always stressed lol_

 **Connor** (06:44 PM)  
_Is that what you’re doing this weekend? Being stressed?_

 **Hank** (06:46 PM)  
_Hell no_

 **Hank** (06:46 PM) _  
__Well sorta I guess. I’ve got stuff to read for class so...gotta do that at some point_

 **Connor** (06:47 PM)  
_The PDFs we got for Criminal Investigation were very interesting. I’d love to know what you think._

 **Hank** (06:52 PM)  
_You read them already??? Fuck I’d kill to be able to focus like that_

 **Connor** (06:54 PM)  
_There isn’t much to distract me at home. We keep a quiet house._

 **Hank** (07:01 PM)  
_Mine couldn’t be quiet on mute_

 **Hank** (07:02 PM)  
_Speaking of. Brb. Dinners on_

.

**August 20th, 2028**

**Connor** (11:04 AM) **  
** _Do you think Mr. Yo-Han would take offense if I pointed out an inaccuracy in the textbook?_

 **Hank** (12:45 PM) **  
** _Mornin to you too encyclopedia brown. Sry for passing out last night_

 **Connor** (12:46 PM) **  
** _Hank._

 **Connor** (12:46 PM) **  
** _It’s nearly one in the afternoon._

 **Connor** (12:47 PM) **  
** _Do you even know who Encyclopedia Brown is?_

 **Hank** (1:10 PM) **  
** _First off don’t call me out like this lol its fuckin Sunday_

 **Hank** (1:11 PM) **  
** _And sure. He’s that kid detective or whatever_

 **Connor** (1:11 PM) **  
** _It doesn’t count if you look it up on Wikipedia._

 **Hank** (1:14 PM) **  
** _Stop...being fucking psychic lol_

 **Connor** (1:14 PM)  
_I can’t help that my predictive software picks up on normative behaviors._

 **Hank** (1:20 PM) **  
** _Oh ha ha glados_

 **Connor** (1:21 PM) **  
** _[Attached is a square, robot ideogram with blank white eyes and barred ‘teeth’. It’s the first emoji that Connor has ever sent.]_

.

**August 23th, 2028**

**Connor** (4:03 PM)  
_What’s Kurgan doing right now?_

 **Hank** (4:07 PM)  
_Wolfing down his dinner_

 **Hank** (4:07 PM) _  
_ _Pun intended_

 **Connor** (4:08 PM)  
_Tell him that I said hello._

 **Hank** (4:08 PM)  
_You want me to actually say that?_

 **Connor** (4:09 PM)  
_Over eighty percent of dog owners admit to having full conversations with their pets._

 **Hank** (4:11 PM)  
_Fair point_. _Hang on_

 **Hank** (4:25 PM)  
_[A German Shepherd, donning a blue, paisley handkerchief around his neck like a collar, sits poised as he looks directly into the camera.]_

 **Hank** (4:25 PM) _  
_ _Garbage boy stinkman says hello_

 **Connor** (4:25 PM)  
_Don’t be rude._

 **Connor** (4:25 PM)  
_It’s ‘CAPTAIN Garbage Boy Stinkman’._

 **Hank** (4:27 PM)  
_That’s a fuckin mouthful tho_

 **Connor** (4:27 PM)  
_Why did you name him Kurgan?_

 **Hank** (4:39 PM)  
_He had it when we adopted him. It was too cool to change_

 **Connor** (4:39 PM)  
_So nothing to do with any striking resemblances?_

 **Hank** (4:43 PM)  
_Idk what you’re talking about_

.

**August 25th, 2028**

**Hank** (10:20 PM)  
_By one fuckin touchdown Connor!!! One!!_

 **Connor** (10:21 PM)  
_While I understand what that means in principle, the emotional facet is lost on me._

 **Connor** (10:21 PM)  
_You seem very invested this._

_[An oscillating series of bubble ellipses at the corner of Connor’s vision indicates that Hank is typing for several minutes. He has placed a special notification on the messages between them. Hank stops then starts again.]_

**Hank** (10:32 PM)  
_I played til half way thru the season last yr_

 **Connor** (10:32 PM)  
_Why not join this year?_

 **Hank** (10:46 PM)  
_Seasons already started_

 **Hank** (10:47 PM)  
_And I guess I mighta maybe been an ass_

 **Connor** (10:48 PM)  
_Couldn’t hurt to ask._

 **Connor** (10:48 PM)  
_I would love to watch you play._

 **Hank** (11:07 PM)  
_...I’ll think abt it_

.

**August 28th, 2028**

**Hank** (03:12 AM)  
_I always feel like receptionbot 3000 is watching my every fuckin move when I’m in the office_

 **Connor** (03:12 AM)  
_You mean Rachel?_

 **Hank** (03:15 AM)  
_Yeah like she’s scanning me or some shit. Maybe it’s just her face. “More human than human” or whatever_

 **Connor** (03:16 AM)  
_“More human than human”?_

 **Hank** (03:18 AM)  
_??? Blade Runner?? What you don’t get references to fifty yr old movies lol?_

 **Connor** (03:18 AM)  
_Sometimes, I do. I can’t say that I’ve seen that one, though._

 **Hank** (03:24 AM)  
_I gotta show it to you. They figured we’d have a lot more robots back then_

 **Connor** (03:24 AM)  
_We aren’t too far. We have Rachel, right?_

 **Hank** (03:41 AM)  
_lol tru but you gotta trust me on this. You’ll love it_

 **Hank** (03:42 AM) _  
_ _Fuck I know it’s late but lemme show you the trailer just a sec_

 **Connor** (04:01 AM) **  
** _Hank?_

 **Connor** (04:03 AM)  
_Did you fall asleep again?_

 **Connor** (04:15 AM)  
_Goodnight, Anderson. [A sleeping emoji is added for emphasis, followed by that of a robot face.]_

.

**August 30th, 2028**

**Connor** (3:07 PM)  
_Did your therapy session go alright?_

 **Hank** (3:19 PM)  
_I guess. Just wears me out_

 **Connor** (3:20 PM)  
_You should hug Kurgan._

 **Connor** (3:21 PM)  
_I feel like I would like to hug Kurgan some days._

 **Hank** (3:35 PM)  
_[A photo of Hank lying in what appears to be his bed comes through Connor’s messaging system. The pillowcases are a lovely, cornflower blue. Kurgan’s head rests on Hank’s left shoulder, his big snout nuzzled against Hank’s throat. Hank’s sandy blonde hair has been pulled back, but a number of his curls that are too short for the tie at the nape of his neck fall around his face instead.]_

 **Connor** (3:35 PM)  
_Your hair looks nice like that._

_[The typing indicator appears, disappears, and appears again several times.]_

**Hank** (3:42 PM)  
_lmao might wanna get your eyes checked_

 **Connor** (3:43 PM)  
_I assure you that my vision is excellent._

.

**September 1st, 2028**

**Hank** (06:04 AM)  
_Morning. Sry for passing out_

 **Hank** (06:04 AM)  
_Again lol_

 **Connor** (06:04 AM)  
_Good morning, Hank! Did you sleep well?_

 **Hank** (06:06 AM)  
_Smth like that. Never feels like enough tho. You?_

 **Connor** (06:06 AM)  
_I think I have enough energy to get me through the day._

 **Hank** (06:10 AM)  
_Fuckin amen_

.

**September 6th, 2028**

**Connor** (7:19 PM)  
_Happy birthday, btw. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it at school._

 **Hank** (7:23 PM)  
_Ugggh how’d you even find out_

 **Connor** (7:23 PM)  
_I’m just lucky, I guess. [He adds a winking emoji to make it more lively. Also to avoid telling Hank that he knows his birthday because it showed up on Connor’s HUD the first time that he’d met Hank. Connor is not prone to forgetfulness.]_

.

**September 10th, 2028**

**Hank** (8:55 PM)  
_Lol your emoji usage is fuckin cute_

 **Connor** (8:56 PM)  
_I never get to use my favorite one._

 **Hank** (9:00 PM)  
_Yeah? Which is that?_

 **Hank** (9:11 PM)  
_Kinda surprised the little robot dude isn’t your fave_

 **Hank** (10:02 PM)  
_? Did you actually fall asleep first this time lol?_

 **Hank** (10:39 PM)  
_Night Connor. Talk tmrw_

.

**September 11th, 2028**

**Hank** (8:05 AM)  
_?_

 **Hank** (11:33 AM)  
_Hope you’re ok. Office says your mom called in_

.

**September 12th, 2028**

**Hank** (10:10 AM)  
_Connor?_

 **Hank** (7:53 PM)  
_Gonna be honest you’re kinda freakin me out lol_

.

**September 13th, 2028**

**Hank** (4:23 PM)  
_Shit I know I’m fuckin spamming but I hope everything’s alright. Let me know if I can help_

.

**September 10th, 2028**

When Connor and Amanda first moved into their red-brick home in the suburbs, she made it perfectly clear that his room was a luxury. A benevolent gift seeing as Connor doesn’t technically need it. Connor makes it his own, nonetheless.

At first, he’d put up fairy lights; it seemed like the thing to do. Many interior decorating sites utilize them in photographs and have done for the last ten years, at least. It seems to be a bit of a contemporary classic.

Connor tore them down in what Amanda had spitefully called ‘a tantrum’ a week later. He prefers to think of it as a display of independence. Why does he need to be like everyone else anyway?

It feels more like himself now. Sparse but neat. There’s a bed that he uses for comfortable lounging and the occasional stasis. It’s pressed against a wall with two slatted, west-facing windows. He has a plant on the sill as well that was given to him for Christmas last year. A bonsai tree.

(Portulacaria afra of the didiereaceae family. Otherwise known as elephant bush, spekboom, or—most commonly in this context—dwarf jade. Three years, ten months, and one week old when Connor had received it. Four years, six months, and three weeks today.)

His walls are shaded in a soft, pastel green. Sometimes, when the sun hits them just right, the light gives the room a calming glow.

That isn’t the case today. Rain is coming down in sheets, hitting the window pane in a pounding, erratic rhythm.

Hank’s custom notification blinks in the corner of Connor’s HUD. His texts to Connor vary from ridiculous photos of Kurgan to homework to idle chat. They’ve become a constant that has made Connor’s home life less…quiet. Less predictable. There’s a rush in the anticipation of Hank’s messages that Connor finds to be a comfort in his lonely tower.

 **Hank** (8:12 PM)  
_My parents are so fuckin old school with that shit. They still think the eggplant is height of comedy_

Hank must be done with dinner. Connor hopes it was better than the cold pop-tart that he’d mentioned having for lunch. He reviews the message and—thanks to his expensive, high-powered processor—is ready with a response within seconds.

 **Connor** (8:12 PM)  
_I find that a well placed eggplant can be a great conversation starter._

Sometimes Connor likes to imagine Hank reading his replies. He pictures him sitting in his room, the image a collage shaped from pieces taken out of the background of Hank’s photos. Snapshots saved in a file that is buried deep past several obscure paths in his memory banks and coding. He doesn’t like to think that he’s hiding them from anyone. Only keeping them safe. Keeping Hank safe.

Just as he sees Hank’s speech bubble indicate that he’s typing, Connor hears the doorbell ring through the house. It chimes a second time, and Connor realizes that Amanda is expecting him to answer. His HUD flashes again.

 **Hank** (8:25 PM)  
_I dunno. I’m more of a peach guy lol. Although ngl I’m a sucker for the little fried egg_

Hank’s text comes through just as Connor reaches the landing. It makes him smile.

 **Connor** (8: 25 PM)  
_Do you relate to it?_

Connor opens the door, and the sound of the rain roars through the entrance along with a rush of cool, wet air. A man stands on the front porch, closed umbrella in hand. It’s sleek and black unlike the attire of the gentleman holding it. He prefers something more relaxed but still wildly expensive. A five-hundred dollar t-shirt and tailored jeans.

“Hello, Connor.”

The young Elijah Kamski gives Connor a large smile that never quite reaches his eyes. The sharp blues behind his glasses are too busy watching Connor’s every movement with the same rapt attention he always has around the android. His beard is trimmed close with neat edges. He’s gotten a new piercing in his ear since Connor last saw him.

“Hello, Mr. Kamski,” Connor greets. He pulls the door back and steps aside to let him through. Kamski’s trendy, overpriced sneakers leave slick footprints on the hardwood floor as he makes his way past the threshold.

“Now where’s your lovely mother?” Kamski asks Connor in a saccharine demeanor that is obviously meant to be facetious.

“Let’s get this over with,” Amanda says in lieu of an acknowledgement as she moves through the kitchen toward them. Kamski greets his coworker with a teasing edge. Amanda doesn’t bother returning the courtesy. “Come along, Connor.”

Amanda’s mood is an ever shifting season, but in the presence of Kamski, it goes into a steady and biting winter. All the hard work that Connor does to keep her happy seems to disappear into flakes whenever Kamski comes to call.

Connor’s mind reels with past experiments, predictive software jumping anxiously from one possibility to another.

 **Hank** (8:30 PM)  
_On a personal level. U?_

 **Connor** (8:30 PM) **  
**_Scrambled._

They descend into the basement. A usual location when Kamski is involved. It’s filled with equipment that’s reminiscent of a Cyberlife lab. There’s a metal table at the center of the room’s back wall, closest to the monitors and tools. The lighting is fluorescent and bland. Connor stands at the bottom of the steps, waiting to be told to come further in. He doesn’t have to. He knows that table is for him. He knows those tools are for his innerworkings, and perhaps that’s why he hesitates at a polite distance while Amanda and Kamski arrange things around each other.

“How’s school?” Kamski inquires, his curious voice breaking the silence. He rolls his sleeves.

“It’s going well, thank you,” Connor replies, and this seems to please Kamski somehow. He glances over at Amanda with a small, self-congratulatory sort of grin. Her only response is not looking half so impressed as she returns to studying her tablet. Kamski does not seem terribly fazed.

“Do you have a favorite class?” He motions Connor to step toward the table beside him. “I always loved history.”

Connor pauses, mouth opening as he wavers. Amanda has never bothered to ask his thoughts or opinions on school. She merely inquires about his progress.

“Criminal Investigation. Some of the information is a little dated, though.”

“For example?” Kamski asks as Connor settles down onto the cool, metal table. Connor can tell that he’s listening, but his attention is split between the words and the task ahead. Humans can find it hard to focus on multiple things at once. Both Kamski and Amanda, however, are intellectually superior to the majority of their peers. Kamski in particular to a frightening degree.

Connor’s stomach churns. No, not his stomach. His...waste-containment unit. It rests around the same place that a human stomach might, and it wriggles nervously like it’s filled with slimy, anxious eels.

He replies, rather more mechanically than he’s grown used to lately, “In later chapters, there’s far too much emphasis on blood spatter analysis. I would predict a 63% likelihood that the conviction was wrongful in one of the primary case examples.”

Kamski gives an answering nod, appearing distracted but approving of Connor’s specificity nonetheless. He takes a penlight from the stainless steel instrument tray and grasps Connor’s face by the chin. His grip is not quite rough but certainly not gentle either.

“Have you made friends?” Kamski says as he shines the beam of light into Connor’s eye. He doesn’t need to know whether Connor’s pupils mimic the proper response or the status of the ringed optics that hide underneath his iris. Amanda keeps a thorough record of her diagnostic tests. Either Kamski doesn’t trust her measurements, or he simply prefers to do them himself.

Connor expects that it might be a bit of both.

“I—” His eyes flit toward where Amanda’s stern figure stands near some of the monitoring equipment, fingers clacking across the keyboard. Kamski’s gaze follows Connor’s with a distant sort of amusement. “Yes.”

“Anyone special?”

 **Hank** (8:41 PM)  
_Feelin alright there con?_

 **Connor** (8:41 PM)  
_[Connor sends only an emoji with spirals for eyes. A rather whimsical response for the twisting nerves that are knotting up in the center of his abdomen.]_

“Carl Manfred’s son,” Connor tells him, because it had so effortlessly garnered Amanda’s approval. Kamski’s is far easier to obtain. Connor sometimes worries that he may not want it. “His name is Markus. I’m closer with his boyfriend, Simon Phillips.”

“Anyone else?”

“The other three don’t talk to me as freely as Simon or Markus, but we interact enough to be considered ‘friends’ by societal standards. There’s also a boy in my Sign Language class. Rupert. He’s quieter and shows signs of severe social anxiety as well as selective mutism.”

“Why don’t you tell him about the friend you insist on keeping a secret from me, Connor?” Amanda speaks up without turning toward them. Both preoccupied and tetchy all at once. Connor’s eyes snap in her direction, that unease hitting an abrupt boil at even the approximation of Hank.

“It’s not a secret,” Connor says, too quickly. Kamski is watching him with his sharp, blue eyes. They are colder and more predatory than Hank’s crystal clear gaze. Kamski feels like a large, hungry snake when he looks at Connor like that. “We only speak in the parking lot before Amanda picks me up. He’s not my...friend.”

“Amanda, would you mind getting the installment out of my car,” Kamski requests, abruptly. He does not glance away from Connor. His vital signs show distinct signs of deception. “I’ve forgotten it. Sleek, black box. You can’t miss it.”

Amanda looks between them, an upward tick of her brow and a wryness in her gaze telling Connor that she isn’t entirely sold on the lie. Kamski’s eyes remain fixed. Despite her doubt, Amanda strides back up the steps of the basement with nary a compaint.

“Lie back, Connor,” Kamski orders. The door clicks shut at the top of the stairs.

The thirium pumping through Connor’s body runs cold, clumping together and sinking like lead. His jaw tenses in a defiant gesture that rises to the surface before he has time to check it. Kamski’s lips turn up at the corners. He tilts his chin down, looking up through the lashes. A submissive action in humans, though it is often a lie.

“No memory probe. I promise,” he assures. The tension in Connor’s shoulders releases. No signs of deception in this statement, at least. “We don’t want you locking up like last time.”

Connor obliges then, fears now abated at least in part. He reclines back against the rigid, steel slab. There is no pillow provided, so he has to tilt his chin forward to keep his spine straight. It is in no way comfortable.

Kamski walks up alongside the table with sure strides and pushes Connor’s sweatshirt up around his chest like maneuvering a doll. “So this boy you don’t want to tell Amanda about…”

“It’s not—”

“You can trust me, Connor,” Kamski tells him with a facsimile of softness in his eyes. It’s a grey statement. That’s how Connor would describe it: grey. He cannot always trust Kamski. No one should—there’s a story about a scorpion and a toad somewhere in Connor’s memory banks—but in this instance, he feels that Kamski is telling the truth. At the very least, Connor _wants_ to believe him. “Open up panel 31C for me please.”

The synthetic skin on Connor’s stomach flushes away to reveal his chassis, milky white over what would be his abdominal muscles and dark, semi-transparent grey across the imitation of obliques. The panel in question slides away with a quiet hiss.

 **Hank** (8:55 PM)  
_Lol your emoji usage is fuckin cute_

“I don’t want to share him with Amanda,” Connor replies resolutely. “She wouldn’t like him.”

 **Connor** (8:56 PM)  
_I never get to use my favorite one._

“‘Share’,” Kamski repeats, a calculating timbre coloring his voice. “Such an interesting word choice. Why do you think she wouldn’t like him?”

Connor stares up into the gaping spaces between the basement rafters as Elijah pulls out the waste-containment unit from his chest. “He’s gruff and socially challenged. He rides a motorcycle.”

Kamski laughs low in his chest. A breathy, closed mouth thing that’s just shy of mocking. Connor doesn’t get the joke. “Do you have a crush on him, Connor?”

Connor listens as Elijah walks the attachment toward the sink and cabinet unit on the wall closest to Connor’s feet.

“How would I know?” Connor questions with genuine curiosity.  

Kamski dumps the meager contents of the unit into the trash, rinsing it out before replacing the deodorizing dust that soaks up moisture from anything Connor eats or drinks. It’s the only part of that particular system that requires upkeep. The rest is mostly self-cleaning.

It’s not particularly appealing, but there’s not much to be done for it.

“An acute desire to be around him, perhaps?” Kamski slots the component back into place with a snap. Connor closes the panel on his stomach as Kamski settles back onto the little, rolling stool. “A focus on certain physical features that you might find ‘attractive’, even. I would suggest the truism of ‘butterflies in the stomach’, but I don’t know if that would work the same without a...pituitary gland or adrenaline.”

It does, Connor thinks. It does work the same. He isn’t certain why. A learned behavior, perhaps? Or some android equivalent of that misfired use of fight or flight in humans?

“My apologies, Amanda,” Kamski says at the sound of the door at the top of the steps opening. His eyes are still firmly watching Connor just as they had been when she left. Observing. Devising calculations in his head. His posture doesn’t change in the slightest. Shoulders lax, feet apart, hands resting lazily together between his thighs. “Seems it was in my bag the entire time.”

Amanda doesn’t seem terribly surprised by the deception. More just vaguely miffed by the inconvenience or possibly at the laziness of Kamski’s pretense.

“We’re going to shut you down for a while Connor,” Kamski continues, tone soft.

“What new system are you installing?” Connor asks.

Kamski’s smile is warm, but there are wolf’s teeth glinting beneath the wool. “It’s a surprise.”

.

_2028.09.14.03.17.53.754 EDT_

Model RK800  
Serial # 313 248 317 5  
Designation [[Connor]]  
BIOS 5.3 Revision 1435  
Reboot…

 **Alert!** New Biocomponent #2837 Implemented  
**Alert!** New Biosensors Implemented  
**Alert!** New Scripting Implemented  
**Alert!** 15 New Messages  
> 8 New Messages from Priority Contact [[Hank]]  
> 3 New Messages from Contact [[Unknown]], Traced Number to [[Phillips, Simon]]  
> 1 New Message from Contact [[Unknown]], Traced Number to [[Phillips, Daniel]]  
> 2 New Messages from Contact [[Markus]]  
> 1 New Message from Contact [[Rupert]]

 **Loading Kamski OS** …  
System Initialization…  
Checking Biocomponents… **OK**  
Initializing Biosensors… **OK**  
Initializing AI Engine… **OK**

Memory Status… **OK**  
**All Systems** … **OK**

 

**Ready**

.

**September 14th, 2028**

**Connor** (05:13 AM) **  
** _Sorry for not replying. I was sick. I’m better now. Will I see you at our usual spot before school?_

Connor knows that Hank always checks his phone when he wakes up. Hank is the first to admit he’s addicted to the ‘damn thing’, so the fact that he hasn’t replied confuses Connor throughout the drive to school. His memory had been flooded with messages from Hank when he’d reconnected mere hours ago. Now, though, there’s nothing.

His processors are still adjusting the sensitivity of his new biocomponent. Thinking too much causes his insides to feel uncomfortably warm in a manner consistent with overheating, so he attempts to focus on the familiar view as it passes them by instead. Humans do the same when they grow carsick from what he understands.

“It’s best if we tell people that you were suffering from pneumonia,” Amanda tells him. Her voice is subdued and soothing. She tends to focus more on driving than keeping conversation when behind the wheel, but her mood today seems...affable. “In case any of your friends ask.”

“Yes, Amanda.”

“The school was concerned due to your prolonged absence—” Connor wonders if he took too long to integrate the new upgrade. If there’s a part of him that failed. He makes a note to run a diagnostic in order to ensure that it doesn’t happen again. “—and there’s really no use in keeping you away any longer. What better way to test new equipment than in the field.”

Connor remains silent. His mouth seems to be malfunctioning anyway, tongue causing much more CPU usage than he’s used to accommodating. It’s taking enough of a toll as it is.

They arrive at the school parking lot, but it’s not until Amanda has driven away that Connor realizes he didn’t give his customary farewell. She didn’t seem particularly bothered.

He stays put for a beat to allow his staggering balance to return. The rush of information has been particularly hard on him after this upgrade. At home it wasn’t so bad. Rebooting had been a slow chore but easy when lying in a bare room. Now the world around him is loud and bright.

And those are just the usual problems that come with a hard reboot. With this particular component comes a whole flood of information to adjust to. A whole flood of _more_. He takes a breath of air through his mouth and across his tongue and…

> Vehicle Emissions: _Carbon Monoxide, Carbon Dioxide, Hydrocarbon, Nitrogen Oxide, Particulate Matter_  
> Electronic Cigarette Vapor: _Propylene Glycol, Glycerin, Nicotine, Strawberry Flavoring (Air Factory)_ _  
_ > Aerosol Perfume: _Denaturalized Alcohol, Hydrofluorocarbon 152A, Limonene, Butylphenyl Methylpropional, Alpha-Isomethyl Iono—_

“—nor?” Connor’s hearing is so full of static that he hardly registers the familiar sound. He can practically hear his own fans whirring in his chest. “Connor!”

Connor jolts at the sound of Hank so close to his side, hand brushing the turn of his elbow. Hank jerks away as if under the impression that Connor had been recoiling from the gentle pressure of his fingers. His BPM is slightly elevated and his breathing is heavier. His bike is across the lot. He must have run over. Did he see Connor? Was he waiting?  

“Hello,” Connor greets in a rush when he realizes that he’s let an awkward silence linger for several beats too long. This doesn’t seem to ease the look of distress on Hank’s face.

“Wh—” Hank appears to be at a loss for words. Something that Connor can’t identify reads across his face, spreading until Hank is reaching out again. “Fuck, are you okay?” His hand rests on Connor’s shoulder. Connor feels it squeeze through his synthetic skin. “You went radio silent for half a fuckin’ week.”

Three days. Connor spent over seventy-two hours rebooting while the world around him kept turning. Suspended in absolute nothingness for _three days_.

“Did you get my text? I had pneumonia,” Connor parrots, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

Hank’s expression doesn’t change. In fact, the response is in direct opposition to what Connor had expected.

“Pneumonia? You serious?” Why is Hank so angry? Connor’s mind goes through a series of scans, but none of their previous conversations leading up to his absence merit such a response. “Con, you just fuckin’ disappeared! I wanted to show up at your house. Make sure you weren’t _actually_ dead, but ReceptionBot wouldn’t even give me a phone number.”

“Rachel can’t hand out private information. It goes against her programming.”

Why can’t Hank just call her by her name?

“That’s not the fucking point.”

“Hank, I was sick,” Connor reasons. “What did you want me to do?”

“Fuck, just to tell me that you were alright.”

“I wasn’t. That’s the point.” Connor feels that rise in temperature, again. For such an expensive piece of equipment, it’s certainly struggling to keep up with Hank’s irritability.

“I know that! But you can’t expect me to not be worried! You ghosted. All sorts of shit could’ve happened to you.”

Connor’s entire system lags for a moment like Hank’s words are too much information to process. Even with whatever Kamski forced into his body, altering his insides, Hank’s words cut through the delay and the noise.

“You were worried,” Connor says softly, the realization sweeping through him all at once. He thinks he may feel something like awe at the very idea of that.

“What? I…yeah of course I was.” Hank readjusts his backpack. “A lot of us were. Simon kept asking about you, so I gave him your number. Figured you’d be okay with it. He just came back even more fuckin’ worried, though, so...”

Connor’s mind is a whir as Hank speaks. He’s still struggling to reboot. A little, red triangle pops up in the corner of his vision as a warning of possible overheating. He feels his body sway in a moment of imbalance but catches himself. He’s sure that Hank doesn’t notice.

“Students often take a leave of absence,” Connor tells him. His eyes are fixed on the center of Hank’s chest, avoiding his gaze. It’s little use. His peripheries are excellent, and he can easily observe the way that Hank tilts his head as if to catch Connor’s confused gaze.

“Don’t mean others don’t care when they’re gone.” There’s a gruff sort of edge to his voice, because Hank struggles to be sincere. His clever eyes continue to watch Connor with concern. “Con, you sure you’re okay to be back?”

Connor feels like Hank could see beneath his synthetic skin when he looks at him like that. To the chassis and the wiring and the thirium thrumming underneath. Would he worry about Connor if he knew? Would he care at all? Connor thinks, _‘Rachel, Rachel, Rachel,’_ and suspects not.

“I’m performing optimally,” he replies with a bit of a pout, only half-joking. There’s something fascinating about the threading of Hank’s sweater just below his throat.

> Aerosol Perfume _(Kenneth Cole)_  
> Liquid Cleaning Agent _(Gain, “Original + Aroma Boost”)_ _  
_ > Shower Gel _(Lush, “It’s Raining Men”)_

Connor’s lips twitch at that last one. He shouldn’t be able to read it at this distance, he thinks even as he’s attempting to adjust the sensitivity. He’s glad to have identified Hank’s honey scented body wash nonetheless. He should need to be closer, though. Pressed tight against Hank’s chest with his nose buried in his shirt. Maybe not even then. Maybe only if his tongue was allowed to peek out for the smallest sample. The skin of Hank’s throat against his mouth and pulse fluttering—  

Hank snorts in response to Connor’s comment. His brain can’t process quite so fast as Connor’s, even as overloaded as Connor is today. Connor lets out a huff of air, thankful that the temperature is relatively mild so that it doesn’t come out in a cloud of heat.

“Yeah, whatever you say robo-boy.”

Hank seems placated by Connor’s jest, not that his scrutiny lessens at all as they move toward the school. He is not particularly adverse to looking at Connor on a regular day, but the amount of times that Hank has glanced at him has increased by at least 12% by the time that they enter the building.

Connor is fairly certain that Hank doesn’t miss the way that he stiffens upon pushing through the heavy, plexiglass doors. If the parking lot had overwhelmed his senses, it’s nothing compared to the halls and lobbies and other gathering pockets that are filled with students.

Connor clenches his jaw so tightly that, were his teeth not made of material far stronger than enamel and dentin, he’s certain they would crack under the pressure.

Hank doesn’t ask if he’s alright again, his brow furrowing with a clear effort to tamp down more probing questions.

In first period, Markus is excessively supportive and sympathetic in the way that only Markus can be without coming off cloying. He shares gentle platitudes about a cousin that had gotten bacterial pneumonia.

A quick search of the illness tells Connor that a case of viral pneumonia is likely a more suitable option when attempting to raise the least amount of concern. The symptoms he gives seem close enough to what Markus, in his limited knowledge of the subject matter, has heard to not raise any suspicion.

The red, cautionary triangle becomes a constant in the corner of his vision. Whenever he opens his mouth to breathe or to speak, the air rushes over the new biocomponent in a wave of information. Like a high pitched frequency blasted over the loudspeaker. Like a screeching note on a violin.

By second period, he’s decreased the sensitivity by 10%.

A lot of his progress with Rupert was lost in the three days of his absence. Rupert shows concern but his signs have lost some of their enthusiasm. He speaks a soft greeting before falling back into mutism. Connor is grateful though. He hardly even has to open his mouth throughout the entire class, slipping easily into the calming movements of their hands.

This isn’t how the component is meant to work. It’s meant to analyse samples through contact, a task that could fit into many positions though he’s sure Kamski had been considering the law enforcement possibilities at the time that he made it. Connor concedes that he might be projecting. He does quite like the idea of it.

_“Why by mouth?” Connor had asked, prodding gently at the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t reactive yet. Kamski had worried about a spike in his stress levels if Connor had awoken to a torrent of information without warning._

_“Let’s start you at full sensitivity, and you can adjust as necessary,” Kamski replied before addressing Connor’s question. “The mouth is easy to access but also not consistently open to the air. Plus, I was able to run a line of cleaning fluid through for more accurate analysis.”_

_Connor frowned, tongue running through the crevice between the inside ‘flesh’ of his mouth and his gums. He’d always had a lubricant made to imitate the glossy look of saliva, but this tasted—'tasted'?—different. A little bit cool like peppermint._

_Kamski smiled, “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe for human ingestion.” This had confused Connor even more. “Ready?”_

Connor ticks the sensitivity down by a full 15% after third period with Hank and finally stops being able to review every individual element of the air around him when he cycles it through his cooling systems. For the most part. A blessing and a curse as it only makes him want to stand closer to pull more information from Hank’s person. It’s been three days. Five if he counts the weekend. Has Hank been eating alright? Has he had enough water to drink? Connor hadn’t thought to even test if he could read those things with a simple breath across his tongue.

He knows better than to increase the sensitivity on such a whim. It’s tempting, though.

By the time Hank meets him for lunch, he feels far more steady. The symbol to alert him of overheating has disappeared, and though his inner workings do feel warmer than when they’re performing optimally, he no longer worries that his teachers or classmates will hear his fans whirring wildly in an attempt to aid his simulating breathing in lowering his internal temperature.

Markus doesn’t seem as concerned in fourth period as he did in first, and Hank looks at him up to 7% less than he had this morning and 2% less than in their class together.

Which is, of course, when Connor has his first bite of food.

There’s a moment—right after Connor’s tongue is _punched_ with sodium—that he blames himself for this. With everything that’s happened, Connor neglected to make his customary school lunch. He would have skipped eating entirely, but since Hank has been watchful the whole day, Connor thought it best to keep up the illusion by purchasing a tray from the cafeteria.

It was not ‘best’. No part of this is ‘best’. Not even the quality of the salt in this individual piece of popcorn chicken is ‘best’.

“Con, you look real fuckin’ pale,” Hank says, his voice sounding distant. While Connor isn’t sure how his complexion being anything other than optimal is even possible without his input, he figures there must be something in his reaction that makes him appear...ill.

 **Human Skin Cells Detected**  
DNA Analysis: _Unknown Female_  
Sample Date: _ >5 hours _

“Hey, Con?”

> Sodium 500mg (23%)  
> Sugar 3g (4%)  
> Cholesterol 25mg (9%)

“Connor?”

> Chicken Breast _  
_ > Breading: _Water, Maltodextrin, Modified Corn Starch, Hydrolysed Corn Gluten, Autolysed Yeast Extract, Disodium Inosinate, Disodium Guanylate…_

“Connor?!”

_…Sodium Phosphates, Enriched Wheat Flour (Bleached), Niacin, Reduced Iron, Thiamine Mononitrate…_

A warning light flashes across Connor’s vision, but it’s too late.

 _Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_   **3%**

His tongue overheated from the cafeteria food. Connor would laugh if he had the ability to do anything other than blink rapidly.

“Alright,” Hank states decisively. “Fuck this. We’re going to see the fucking nurse.”

Hank grasps him firmly by the shoulder, lifting Connor to his feet with very little effort. Connor finds it difficult to object. He doesn’t even really want to, as a matter of fact. Was Hank always this strong?

 _Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **10%** __  
_Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **25%** __  
_Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **35%**  
_Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **50%**

By the time that Connor’s tongue reaches the halfway point—his focus clearing and his speech capabilities coming back online even as the component still sits heavy and swollen in his mouth—Hank has directed them quite a ways through the wide corridors. His hand remains heavy on Connor’s shoulder.

“Hank,” Connor speaks up as he realizes that they are approaching the administrative wing at a brisk, purposeful pace. “Hank, I’m fine.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You’ve been looking like hell all day,” Hank grumbles.  

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.” Hank’s tone doesn’t soften even minutely. Out of anyone, Connor would be the first to know if it did. His audio processors are very sensitive to pitch.

When Hank doesn’t even look at him, when his brow stays knotted and strained above the bridge of his nose, Connor knows that no silly quip is going to interrupt their trajectory. As beautifully built as his brain may be, he finds it hard to come up with something that will deter Hank.

Visiting the nurse would be dangerous. Connor can emulate certain temperatures at will and has protocols meant to imitate a human response in times of emergency, but these are features that still need fine tuning. There is an 88% chance that they will hold up to scrutiny. A 12% possibility of discovery would be low in some scenarios. In this particular set of circumstances, it’s high risk.

Amanda would not be pleased. Not at all.  

However, even as he tries to calculate the best approach, there is a nagging, intrusive thought that keeps wriggling past that directive. He…wants this. He wants Hank to worry. Wants him to care so much that he’d skip lunch to drag Connor across the school. Wants that furrowed brow and his hand on Connor’s shoulder.

He likes it, and he wants it, and he has lied to get this. He made Hank feel that worry for days. Connor is smothered under the weight of that thought. It’s a strange sensation for him. For an android. For something that isn’t _alive_. Connor can see a few capillaries that have burst underneath the skin of Hank’s eyes, leaving a faint bruising that isn’t usually there. Kamski and Amanda hadn’t lost a wink of sleep even with the intensity of their work.

The suffocation is met by a warmth that Connor suspects ought to be pleasant. It’s too much, though. Too much with his roaring fans and the strange new sensitivity of his mouth and the memory of nothing but black for days. Too much with the pressure of Hank’s wide hand on his shoulder.

That pressure makes his chassis itch, makes his thirium pump ache, makes him feel grounded to the ugly school carpeting.

Too much and not enough.

 _Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **83%**

Connor grabs Hank by the hoodie and pulls him through the door of a passing bathroom. Nobody likes this one. It’s too close to the office, possibly, or maybe it’s rumored to be haunted. He isn’t sure of the reason, but there is a 97% certainty that it will remain empty for as long as they end up staying.

His rushed steps echo off the tiled walls of the room and the glassy floor. Hank doesn’t even fight him, Connor notices. He exclaims and calls Connor’s name, but he follows along with the same fluidity that Hank is known for. Some would call it carelessness. Connor knows better.

Coming to a halt in front of the urinals, Connor spins on his heel. He takes in the way that Hank’s brow furrows at the sudden stop, opening his mouth slightly as if to speak. The pink of his tongue is visible in the gap.

 _Biocomponent #2837 Rebooting…_ **95%**

It barely takes him half a second to catalogue Hank’s posturing. He would only need half that time to conjure up doubts about what he means to do next, but he doesn’t feel like thinking just yet anyway.

Connor slides his arms around Hank’s broad chest until they’re pressed flush together. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing, but the gesture isn’t that difficult to imitate.

The effect is immediate. Hank’s body feels steady and solid against him, albeit tense. The scent that Connor has catalogued as ‘Hank’ brushes across his sensors as Connor takes a long, unneeded breath. The whirring inside of him seems to slow and unwind.

He grips at the back of Hank’s hoodie and rests his cheek on Hank’s shoulder.

“Don’t make me go,” he says, soft, the words muttered against Hank’s neck. He doesn’t know if his voice comes out meek because of the heaviness of his tongue or if it’s a reflection of how he feels in this moment. Meek and small and all wrapped up in Hank’s warmth.

“Connor, you’re boiling,” Hank whispers as one hand wraps around Connor’s back and the other cradles the back of his neck. “I know the nurse is a dick, but I don’t—I don’t want anything to happen to you...”

Connor doesn’t move. Neither of them do. Connor can feel the tension in Hank’s shoulders melt into almost nothing. Connor holds on that much tighter for it. It’s okay to do this, isn’t it? Hank hasn’t pushed him away yet, right?

“I’m alright, Hank. I promise.” It’s minute, but Connor can tell by Hank’s posture that this doesn't convince him. That last bit of rigidity holds on with its claws. “I just…need this. Can we stay here? Just for a little while?”

Connor feels the moment that last resistance gives way. The tension disappears so entirely that Hank sags, a gentle sigh passing through his lips as his embrace becomes more sure and comforting rather than just seeking the heat of Connor’s neck.

“Anything you want, Con.”

**Biocomponent #2837 Reboot Successful!**

Connor turns down the sensors on his tongue to nearly 25%. Barely enough to be able to scan anything unless through taste. Just enough to scan the smell of Hank with his nose buried into his shirt. There’s the body wash that he catalogued before. The aerosol and the detergent. A dryer sheet, as well. Tresemme shampoo specifically designed for curly hair. Deodorant and human skin cells and dog shed.

He logs it all away before ticking down his sensitivity those last few percentages.  A part of Connor wants to peek his tongue out just enough to get a sample, but he knows that it would be...inappropriate. He doesn’t want to ruin this.

He tries to think of the last time that someone touched him so fondly, and his memories come up blank. The best he has for reference are shoulder touches and being pulled along at the arm by Simon and the clinical, detached way that Kamski and Amanda maneuver him for procedures and diagnostics. He’s never...had a hug before, has he? No. He hasn’t, now that he considers it.

This is his first. It’s warm and gentle. Connor feels safe with Hank’s arms all wrapped around him; he wonders if that’s a byproduct of all embraces or if it’s unique to Hank. He thinks it might just be Hank.

Connor would like to be hugged more. Would like to be touched at all.

“Hey,” Hank begins, pulling back. Connor doesn’t want to let go, but he reluctantly releases his grip on the back of Hank’s hoodie. He doesn’t have to go far. “Fuck, you’re crying…”

Is he? Is that what the heat behind his eyes had been? He’d thought it was related to his new installment. He didn’t even know he could do that. It’s a strangely cruel feature.

“Please don’t call her that,” Connor says. He doesn’t even know where the words come from. They form into a knot beneath his tongue and pour out in a sincere plea. If Hank could just...if he could only...

Hank looks suitably confused. “What?”

“Don’t call her ‘Reception Bot’.” Connor doesn’t sniffle. He wonders if standing there with wet cheeks and sad eyes is enough or if he looks uncanny. Is he doing any of this right at all?  “Her name is Rachel.”

This doesn’t seem to confuse Hank any less, but something like sympathy mixes in with his befuddlement. He cups Connor’s cheek with one of his hands, calloused on his palm, and pushes away the saline tears with his thumb.

“Sure,” he agrees. His voice is still kind, and when it’s quiet like that it sounds like grit on sandpaper. “I didn’t mean—I was only—”

“Being an asshole?”

Hank huffs out a laugh and his breath fans across Connor’s face. “Yeah. That.”

Connor wants to kiss him.

Just like that. Abrupt and startling. It’s a strange realization to have about a person, especially when he only just had his first hug. Connor wants more, though. Wants to hug again and hold Hank’s arm in the hall and maybe rest his head on his shoulder with a feign like his neck was just tired.

He reaches forward with lithe fingers and tugs at one of the strings of Hank's hoodie, eyes flicking to Hank’s mouth. Lips pink and full. Connor wonders what they taste like. How would it feels to run his tongue across the seam.

Hank must notice too, because his throat bobs—and now all Connor can think about is his tongue pressed against that uneven line, his mouth filling with fluid at the thought which is certainly...new—and Hank’s BPM ticks up significantly. There's an increase in heat that pools in his cheeks and the back of his neck. Connor's programming seems to mimic the reaction until he feels a matching blush burning underneath his skin. He sways forward, that feeling of fluttering wings swelling up like a panicked bird in his chest.

“Shit,” Hank says as the bell rings overhead. Connor isn't even sure whether it's a reaction to the intent behind his movement or the disturbance that cuts between them with a loud chime. He should have paid more attention to the time.

Connor points out with a frown, “You didn’t get to eat anything.”

Hank is still close enough that he hardly eats up any distance at all when he leans forward and butts their foreheads together gently. Teasing. Like a baby goat. It’s unusually intimate for something that is often used more aggressively. Humans are strange.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hank pulls away from him then, like the gesture hadn’t happened at all, and puts some space between them. “You feel cooler. Maybe I was imagining the fever.”

Connor had figured as much about his temperature. The hug had been grounding. The sudden desire to kiss Hank had taken his mind off of it entirely. His fans have settled and the sensitivity of his biocomponent feels manageable again. He thinks he may have found a perfect little divot in the percentages for it to settle into now that he understands the intensity of something actually pressed against his tongue.

Pressed against his tongue.

Now, he’s wondering what it would feel like in Hank’s mouth. Isn’t that a thought.

Hank makes him promise to go to the nurse if he feels even the slightest bit sick between now and their next class together. Connor agrees, because he knows that it won’t be necessary anyway. Once they’ve parted ways, he spends the rest of his walk to class thinking about kissing Hank. Would he be rough instead of sweet? Would _Connor_? Would Connor be able to feel that little bit of stubble that Hank often has, much to the jealous ire of his classmates? Would he notice Connor seeking out that same sensation that Connor now feels when rolling his tongue against the roof of his own mouth?

Did he even want to kiss him at all?

 **Hank** (11:34 AM)  
_You never did tell me your favorite emoji_

Connor receives the message just as he meets Simon’s worried, blue gaze from the doorway to his fifth period. Connor moves toward the seat saved for him beside his sad eyed friend as the second bell peals over head.

 **Connor** (11:35 AM)  
_[He sends a little, tropical fish emoji. Yellow and blue. It reminds him of the one that he envisions in the floorboards when Amanda is scanning his programming.]_

Would Hank still want to kiss him if he knew what he was?

 **Hank** (11:35 AM)  
_Fuckin adorable_

Maybe. Maybe he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, MalMao, really like percentages, and I think it's pretty obvious lol. We hope you guys enjoyed! Writing with two people can sometimes take a little longer than writing alone so we hope the wait isn't too much! 
> 
> Next up: an anniversary comes around for Hank and his family. 
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](https://roboxcop.tumblr.com/) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Part I, September 21st-22nd 2028 (Hank)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeey lol so this chapter took us a while huh? We had kind of a rough month. The holiday came around plus a couple major surgeries in the family so writing got a little drawn out. 
> 
> And now we return with angst. 
> 
> A couple TWs and just general heads ups for this chapter:  
> • TW for some small and very vague suicide ideation at one point.  
> • TW for serious self-hatred going on.  
> • TW for a brief moment of imagery relating to Cole's death.  
> • TW for misuse of alcohol as a coping mechanism.  
> • TW for smoking.  
> • Also CW bc we got a bit of Hank/OFC (well not actually OFC; she's based on the Traci that Hank has to check out at the Eden Club and then very inelegantly explain his relationship with Connor to lol), but it's aborted. It's not like. A rival or love triangle situation. Hank is just real bad at coping. He's having a no-good, rotten, very bad day.

**September 21st, 2028**

Hank is so fucking tired. It’s all he can think about the whole way home, right up until he throws his helmet off in the garage. He can’t wait to give his homework a wide fucking berth in favor of a hard crash onto his bed. He’s considering what to snack on beforehand as he stumbles into the kitchen, so distracted by his rumbling stomach that he doesn’t immediately notice his dad hunched over the counter where he is deeply engrossed in brewing a mug of tea.

“Hey,” Hank greets. “You’re home early?”

He drops his bag near the table, giving his father a cautious glance. He can tell Wade is deep in thought with his brow so wrinkled and creased.

“Just taking some time off, kiddo,” Hank hears his mother answer from across the house. She’s sitting in the darkened living room, and her voice sounds tired, practically flat. He knows their work can take its toll on civil servants, especially those that care as much as his parents do. Sometimes even they need a break.

“Time off?” he asks innocently enough. His father walks past him with tea in hand and passes it to Liv. She takes the warm, ceramic mug, but it’s not until Wade kisses her forehead that she gives a wan smile and thanks him. Still looks beat as hell, though.

“It’s Cole’s birthday on Saturday,” Wade answers as a matter of fact. Wade has always found the bluntest approach the easiest. Liv squeezes his hand, knowing the strength it takes to say those words. Her eyes turn to the mantelpiece. Hank doesn’t look. He doesn’t fucking need to look at Cole’s photo to know that it’s there next to beautiful flowers that the family always makes sure to keep fresh. Except for Hank.

Shit. Hank kicks himself for letting this sneak up on him. The whole… _thing_ with Connor in the bathroom has been on his mind since it happened. Each time he tries to unpack it all, he ends up losing himself. Thoughts get muddled with feelings, and it left him too stupid to realize his baby brother’s birthday was coming up.

“You would have been eight this year, sweetie,” Liv says, voice cracking towards the end as she continues gazing at the photo as if waiting for Cole to respond. She looks so small all curled up with her feet tucked under her like that. She’s sitting in the same chair that she always does, overlooking the rest of the room.

“We’re ordering Chinese tonight,” Wade tells Hank. He takes the seat next to Liv, staying close just in case. Hank sees all the familiar signs of his father coping with the grief. Hovering. Acting like he’s hosting an event instead of existing in his own home. His mother, too, though it manifests differently in her. His stomach twists. He's desperate to get the fuck away from here. To flee.

“That’s fine. I’m just gonna go to bed,” Hank replies. He reaches for his bag, and lunges it over his shoulder. He takes wide strides toward the fridge, swinging it open and grasping within its depths with very little regard for what he’s taking.

“Hank…” The way Liv says his name just makes him grab for his snacks faster.

“I’m not hungry, thanks,” he grumbles—even as he’s slamming the refrigerator closed—and rushes for the stairs without looking back.

His whole body itches to close his bedroom door behind him, so he can hide away from all of this and pretend it’s not happening. He throws the food onto his desk, wondering if he can just fucking sleep the rest of the day away. The sunlight dancing across his ceiling warns him otherwise. He gives a defeated groan, halfway interrupted by the sound of his phone chiming in his pocket.

 **Connor**  
_Do you think Mr. Graham is unaware of the incredibly dated material, or do you think it’s all part of a test?_

Hank gives the preview a quick glance before dropping his phone back on the bed. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone and especially not Connor.

Connor, whose greatest crime was existing and giving Hank respite from the guilt of killing his brother. How dare he.

Another text. Hank tells himself he’s not going to check his phone. Let it sit. Let it stew. He doesn’t care.

He closes his eyes for a moment...

Then another...

And another…

Then gives in.

 **Connor** **  
** _Not that I object to the extra research._

Downstairs, Hank hears the sound of the garage door opening and closing once more, signifying Sally’s arrival.

He tries to pretend he can’t make out the chatter in the kitchen by burying his head under his pillow. It helps just enough for him to doze off.

When he wakes up again, his eyes itch as they open. They feel so heavy that all he wants to do is close them again. He tries just that, but all he manages to do is toss and turn. In the silence, he finds himself remembering the sight of Connor crying against him, arms wrapped around him so tightly that it was as if Hank was a tether. They haven’t really talked about that moment. Not that Hank wants to find out what it means (or _doesn’t_ mean), but he certainly doesn’t like seeing his friend cry. It makes him feel fucking helpless.

Like some cruel word association, he thinks of Cole.

_You were fucking helpless then too, remember?_

How could he forget. How could Hank ever allow himself to forget when he’s the one who did this. This ritual of sadness that sweeps over the Anderson home is because Hank was helpless, and all he seems to care about is this stupid crush that he shouldn’t even have in the first place.

 **Hank** **  
** _Not his fuckin fault. He has to work w what he’s got_

 **Connor** **  
** _I agree. You should see what the Drama Department has to work with._

Hank sneers at his screen before setting his phone on silent. He’s done talking for the rest of the day.

.

**September 22nd, 2028**

Thing is, the signs were all there long before Hank picked up on them. His mother had been withdrawn and quiet for days before the melancholy really set in. Hank just figured it to be the usual. An elderly person who passed away. A kid who got diagnosed with cancer. A lower income family who didn’t know where they were going to find the tens of thousands of dollars that they would need without insurance. Healthcare could be a fucking depressing profession sometimes. (Liv could weather those moments easily enough alone. Any other day, that is, but this isn't like that.)

Then there was his father whose obsession with Kwazy Cupcakes had seemed to abruptly vanish in favor of vacuuming four days in a row. At some point, he’d changed every light bulb in the house out for new fluorescent bulbs. Those were the kind that Liv preferred. He cleaned out the fridge and the freezer with a scrubbing sponge, tiring himself out through busywork. He even stayed up later than usual and didn’t complain as much about Liv and Sally’s current favorite horror series, either. Although, by then, he’d usually been too tired to think. 

And, honestly, Sally has always been rather private so her holing up in her room—emerging only when the pile of dirty mugs got excessive—wasn’t that unusual. Meg’s voice drifting through the panes of her door where Sally had their sister on video chat or speaker phone, though, ought to have struck him as strange. Meg normally only called once a week. Twice if she was having a bad one.

The air had lost some of its warmth. The fair came and went. The ‘8’ changed to a ‘9’ at the top of Hank’s classwork.

The fact that it took him until the Thursday before—a mere two days—to realize how close Cole’s birthday was is fucking insufferable. A large part of him is pissed at himself for forgetting. He’d been so diligent in the past. So set on his baby brother’s birthday. A smaller part is pissed at Connor for making him. For distracting him so effortlessly from something he’s expected to always carry.

Hank had been so worried and then so confused and then so...whatever else it is that he’s supposed to be when he was pretty sure that his friend almost kissed him. And that he wanted him to. And that he also _didn’t_ want him to because it would be overwhelming and just generally a lot to deal with. It isn’t Connor’s fault. Somehow that only makes it worse.

He’s gruff and distant when they meet up before the first bell. He hardly says two words in Criminal Investigation and comes in just as the bell rings, besides. Connor doesn’t take the bait. He looks calmly at it like a fish that’s far too smart for Hank’s humble waters and swims along his merry way as if to spite Hank for trying.  

What Hank really needs is a smoke.

It’s been months since he’s last had a cigarette. He still has that same pack, hidden more carefully than any smuggled alcohol. His mother doesn’t have a nose for it if he can squeeze in a few of hours of airing out his clothes before getting too close to her. An easy thing if he takes it out in the parking lot during lunch. His dad on the other hand…

Hank always gets home first anyway. He isn’t worried about it.

He takes a long drag of a cig that he bummed off of Pedro, throat burning from the smoke. The nicotine settles in immediately, possibly Pavlovian but relaxing nonetheless. He would consider himself a social smoker overall, most of it happening when he’s too drunk to care. That doesn’t mean the effect is lost on him.

“Thought you and the new kid were attached at the hip,” Gary taunts as he pulls out his own pack of Malboros. He’s leaning back against a beat up old vehicle from the early aughts that doesn’t belong to any of them. His voice has that tone slithering through it. The one that tells Hank that he secretly hates gay people even if he never outright says it.

“He’s not my fucking mom,” Hank replies without looking at him. His eyes are fixed somewhere in the middle distance as he flicks greying embers onto the pavement at his feet.

“Yeah but ‘girlfriend’ is kinda the same thing.”

Even the calming effect of the nicotine in his lungs isn’t enough quell the urge to punch Gary in his smug face for that one. He has before; Gary needs a good shiner every now and again. Clock’s ticking.

“We aren’t dating,” Hank tells him, his voice only revealing a little bit of that strain. “Even if we were, he wouldn’t be my girlfriend.”

Gary puts up his hands up in mock defeat. Obviously, Hank is the one with the problem. Not Gary, no. Never Gary. Hank knows him well enough to know that what it really means is that he doesn’t want to get hit. Hank rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Pedro asks, more kindly that Gary. Considerate. He’s sitting beside Hank on the curb, dark hands empty. Despite what his left over pack of cigarettes might indicate, he is attempting to quit. Not very well mind, but he is _trying_. Hank isn’t helping. Then again, none of what they do helps. Not in the long run, anyway. “He’s not gonna be alone in there, right?”

Hank thinks of Connor’s sad eyes, distant eyes, puppy dog eyes. Fingers latched onto the strings of Hank’s hoodie and gaze fixed on his mouth. Clutching onto the back of Hank’s sweater and tears glistening in the bathroom lighting, surprised like he didn’t even notice that he was crying.

Hank’s chest tightens at the image of Connor waiting for him in the cafeteria. He waves the feeling away.

“He’s got Simon,” he says. It’s true. Simon’s a good friend. Connor has a lot of those. He’ll be fine.

Gary snorts. “I bet he does.”

“Seriously, Gary. Shut the fuck up.” It’s a really awful day for Gary to be in this sort of mood.

“Kid didn’t even have Connor’s _digits_ when he was sick,” Pedro continues on without any heed to either of them.

“Yeah.” Hank tries and fails to keep a smile from twitching at the corners of his lips. Fondness creeps into his voice. “That’s just ‘cause he’s a dumbass who doesn’t know how to give out his number like a normal person.”

The conversation dies out, leaving them to smoke in silence with only an occasional huff or snort of laughter from Gary if any passerby seems particularly funny.

“Hey, remember a couple years ago when we had that party at your place?” Gary asks, likely just for something to say. “Man, that was awesome. You need to throw something like that again.”

He does a giddy, little bounce. Hank’s pretty sure Pedro elbows him just beyond his peripheral.

“See you later, Pedro,” Hank says with finality. “Gary? Go fuck yourself.”

He stubs the cigarette out with his heel. Pedro is busy smacking Gary over the head (“The fuck is wrong with you, bro?” “What did I do now?!”) as Hank drags himself towards the building, readying himself for Connor’s interrogation.

It doesn’t come. As a matter of fact, Connor says nothing about his absence when they meet for psychology. Not that it bothers Hank, of course.

When the teacher instructs the class to group up for an ongoing study, the two still gravitate towards each other. They’ve been a pair for the past week, but Hank is sure that they still would have chosen one another if the project had only begun today. Even if Connor _is_ secretly pissed at him.

“What was for lunch?” Hank tries to keep it casual.

“Macaroni and cheese…I think? Nobody at the table had the cafeteria food, so I didn’t get a good look.”

“Huh. Sorry I missed it.” He’s not. The school’s mac and cheese is fucking gross.

“Don’t be,” Connor replies offhandedly. “I’m pretty sure it’s army surplus.”

Hank nods to himself as he watches Connor jot notes into his notebook before skimming the text again. His handwriting is so fucking neat. Like computer font. Even the mistakes seem deliberate.

“...I was out with Pedro and Gary.”

“I suspected. You smell like an ashtray.” Connor doesn’t bother looking up from his book. He seems as calm as he ever does. Then again, it’s always hard for Hank to get a read on him. So fucking annoying.

“Does it bother you?” Hank cocks an eyebrow.

“What bothers me is that you didn’t do your half of the homework, Hank,” Connor replies, clearly trying not to sound exasperated. It only manages to piss Hank off even more.

“Who gives a shit about the homework?” Hank snaps. It’s not that he forgot to do it. He just couldn’t find it within himself to care yesterday, and that feeling has been bleeding all over today ever since. “Who gives a fuck about any of this?”

He leans back against his chair.

“I don’t know if Psychology is the best place to start feeling nihilistic, Hank.”

“Isn’t it?” he challenges, but Connor just goes back to his studies. Not once rising to it.

By the end of class, that anger inside of Hank has climbed steadily higher, and Connor still refuses to give the outlet that Hank feels he so justly deserves.

“What are you doing tonight?” Connor asks as he hovers by Hank’s side.

“What’s it to you?” Hank swaps one heavy book for another and shoves the rest into his bag. He tries to keep his tone relaxed. A sudden wave of fear washes over him at the thought of Connor knowing what the Anderson house will be doing this evening. Hank shakes it away. His family prefers being reserved in their grief, letting it come out in unique ways. Some more destructive than others.

“We need to catch up on Psychology,” Connor tells him, tone entirely pragmatic. “I thought we might be able to go over it together on the phone.”

“Can’t. Busy.”

Connor gives the sigh of an everyday mishap. Hank really fucking wishes that big, black car would show up right about now so he could have a minute to his fucking self. “That’s inconvenient, but we’ll work around it. Luckily, we still have time before the deadline.”

He tunes Connor out for the rest of the walk to his bike. It’s not like he talks much without Hank’s input anyway, but the air between them is tense.

“Hank?” Connor prods as Hank struggles with the lock on his helmet. It's new.

“What?!” he snarls.

Connor looks surprised for a moment before replying, “See you tomorrow…”

He gives his head a small tilt to the side before climbing into his mother’s car, disappearing before Hank can respond in kind. Instead, he’s left standing alone in the parking lot. Stuck there for long enough to feel cool droplets against his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He hates riding his bike in the rain. Ironic, considering where he lives, but Hank tends to be more prepared than this. He throws his helmet on and zips up his layers as best he can. The good thing about riding a motorcycle in situations like these is that it requires Hank’s full concentration. All of it. No room for any wandering thoughts.

By the time he gets home, he’s a soaking mess. Nothing but his head and the patch covered by his backpack have been spared from the downpour.

“Hey, Hank,” his mother greets. She’s once again sitting in that same, damn chair. Different clothes, of course, but Hank figures she hasn’t moved far.

“Oh. Hey, Mom.” He shuffles out of his shoes in the kitchen entrance while having to juggle petting a happy Kurgan at the same time. A common balancing act.

“Please don’t tell me you were on your bike in that weather,” Liv chides.

“It was fine, Mom.”

“The visibility is terrible out there,” she continues despite his reassurance.

“It was _fine_ , Mom,” Hank repeats. His expression darkens, but he does his best to hide it as he walks around the kitchen on his usual snack hunt.

“You know the roads are at their most dangerous when it starts to rain.”

“Mom!” Hank barks. He slams the door of the pantry behind him sharply. Liv’s head snaps toward the outburst, but her features harden instead of recoiling. “I said it was fine.”

Her jaw clenches, something mean bubbling up beneath the surface of the water. She isn’t like Connor. If Hank wants to fight, she’s swallow that lure all the way up to the fishing wire. _Finally_ , Hank thinks, readying himself for the fight he’s wanted all fucking day.

“Principal Sybille texted me,” she says, voice crackling around the edges. It sounds like a change of topic on the surface. In reality, it’s something she must have been debating on bringing up before Hank made the choice for her. “She said she saw you smoking in the parking lot.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “What, she following me now?”

“She didn’t have to follow you, Hank.” Liv looks entirely unimpressed with a withering turn to her brow. She hasn’t gotten up out of her chair yet. Hank would love to get her out of that chair. “She went to her car and saw you with Pedro and Gary.”

“So she tattled to my fucking mommy? Hundreds of students, and she doesn’t have anything better to do?”

“I’m sure she _does_ have better things to do,” Liv tells him, settling her feet onto the ground, “but she knows that your ‘fucking mommy’ is worried about you.”

Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. Hank tamps down that part of him that feels guilty for riling her up when she ought to be mourning instead of agonizing over his dumb ass. The other part of him is itching for a fight. A strange, uncomfortable thing beneath his skin that he just can’t scratch.

“I’ve been keeping my shit together fine. Am I not allowed to have a bad day?”

Liv laughs, humorlessly, and finally _—finally_ —stands. “Well, forgive me for being a little paranoid after a year long struggle to keep you from flunking out of junior year, destroying public property, punching other kids in the face—”

“Jesus Christ!” Hank begins, a bubble inside of him suddenly bursting. “He had a fucking _Nazi_ badge!”

“And I’m not—!” she stutters and stops. Appearing to collect herself from a surge of emotion. “I understand that, Hank. I do. I’m not saying that the little _shit_ didn’t deserve it, either. But did you not think that, maybe, you could have gone to a principal who has done more for anti-bullying in three years at that school than the last prick did in twenty?”

“I don’t fucking _know_.” Hank’s hand flail wildly around him. “I thought we were done fighting over this shit. It was last year. I was pissed.”

“Exactly, Hank!” Liv’s hands fall to the sides of her grey and blue stitched sweatpants. “As fucked up as that badge was, it wasn’t even about that. You were just _pissed_. Take some responsibility.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank says, deflating slightly. He feels emptied of that desire for a spat, but all that’s left is a gaping hole in the center of his chest. A place to fill with something new. Emptied and filled and emptied again. “Ever think that this is what me taking responsibility looks like?”

His mother’s face reads confusion at first, but that quickly melts away into surprise and then...pity. There’s a taste like bile at the back of Hank’s throat.  

“Hank…” she placates, her voice suddenly so much calmer than before. She takes two steps forward and stops, not letting herself get too close. “You know that no one blames—you don’t need to—.”

“I’m fucking tired,” Hank cuts her off. It isn’t a lie. “I got homework and shit to do.”

His mom doesn’t stop him as he brushes past her on his way toward the landing. The air in the room is heavy around them like the thick, oppressive heat of a sauna. Hank just needs a breath of fresh air.

“Meg wants to know what the hell is going on,” Sally asks as Hank crest the top of the stairs. Her phone is still pressed to her ear, the glass reflecting the pale beige of her skin.

“Maybe tell her to mind her own business,” Hank snipes back.

Sally doesn’t seem moved by his tempestuous disposition. She rolls her eyes toward the knockdown ceiling texture above them and turns back toward her room. “Hank’s in a mood.”

The door clicks shut behind her before Hank can retort to the comment. Not that he would. He isn’t feeling up to it anymore, and even if he was, he knows that Sally is possibly the worst choice for a fight. One argument was enough, and it wasn’t even worth the fucking build up. He throws his shit down on the floor without much notice to where it lands.

His phone is blank when he pulls it out, a picture of Kurgan staring up at him beneath the time display. Connor hasn’t texted him. Connor always texts him after school, but Hank can’t exactly blame him for keeping his distance today. Hank was an ass.

 **Hank**  
_Wat’s up?_

He should apologize, really, but those aren’t the words that come out. Connor responds fucking immediately, like always. Kid is glued to his phone.

(Oddly enough, Hank never really sees him with it though. It’s...weird. Maybe he just doesn’t text a lot when it isn’t Hank.)

 **Connor**  
_I’m working on the Psychology homework at the moment._

Hank knows it isn’t meant to make him feel guilty. Or, hell, maybe it is. What does he know? He only met Connor two months ago. Maybe he’s passive aggressive like that when he’s treated like shit. Out of all of Connor’s friends, Hank’s pretty sure he’s the only asshole to come close to doing so. Point is that whether contrition is the goal or not, that’s what the message gets.

Hank collapses onto his bed in defeat. What does he even say to that? ‘Hey, sorry for being a royal shitstain. Can we just pretend today never happened?’

Not fucking likely.

Fuck it.

His fingers fly across the smooth screen of his phone, a new sense of purpose flaring up in his belly. Rising to replace the void left behind by his deflating urge to fight.

 **Hank**  
_Your mom home tonight_

He slides over to his browser to pass the time, but the reply pops into his inbox within minutes.

 **Gary**  
_Lol nah. Whens she ever_

 **Hank**  
_I can bring whiskey_

 **Gary**  
_Fuckin sick. Ill txt pedro_

_._

Hank considers his options. He knows that he could easily barge his way to the garage and wave off anything his mother has to say about it. Given the choice, however, he’d rather avoid her entirely.

He finds his opening when he hears Liv talking adamantly to herself. She’s on the phone. Now is his chance. He avoids the creaking floorboards as best he can while he climbs down the stairs and takes a peek. As expected, Liv is currently pacing out of sight. A common occurrence with her.

“—like this every year?” he hears her say. A pause. “I know it’s not his fault.”

Liv’s voice carries on through the living room. Hank does his level fucking best to focus on getting the hell out of there and not on what his heartbroken mother is clearly discussing. He rushes through the kitchen, making sure not to stop until he reaches the garage, and shoves his helmet on. He knows full well that everyone in the house will hear the old garage door groaning open. Doesn’t care. He kicks his bike to life and drives out into the pouring rain.

“I hope you brought a whole bottle,” Gary greets when Hank pulls into the cracking, storm-slick driveway. He’s leaning through the doorway like a bouncer waiting for his bribe, and Hank delivers. He reaches into his backpack, pulling out the bottle of whiskey by the neck. He waggles it as proof. The liquid barely even sloshes with how full it is. “Fuckin’ sweet. Come in. Pedro brought that chick he’s into, and the third wheeling was killing me”

“I’m going for a smoke first,” Hank tells him. “Drive here sucks in the rain.”

“You know the rules.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank intones, waving Gary off as he heads toward the backyard. Gary’s mom believes that if she restricts the smoking to the exterior of the house, it’ll cut down on the number of packs she goes through. The filled ashtray that’s perched on the step gives a clear indication of how well that plan worked out.

Hank pulls the sliding door shut behind him and clicks the lighter once, twice, third time lucky. The gentle warmth feels nice against his face while the outside world continues in its misery.

Maybe that’s just him.

He takes a long drag before letting the smoke leave his lungs. Nothing like some good, old-fashioned self-destruction to calm his nerves. Gary’s backyard is bigger than most, but there’s an wildness to it that tells Hank that nobody in the household cares much for gardening. Hank’s own mother is a hopeless gardener. Sally calls it having a necrotic thumb, much to Liv’s horror.

He hears the glass door open behind him, and a girl about his age steps out onto the back porch. Hank remembers her instantly by the haircut. Short and straight and bobbed.

He recalls what Gary said about being a third wheel.

Right.

“They’re nerding out about some ghost show, and it’s killing my buzz,” she explains herself. “Hey again, by the way.”

Robin. Her name is Robin.

Hank lets out a huff in amusement. “Yeah my family’s pretty obsessed with it, too,” he says, before adding, “Long time, no see.”

“I don’t like scary stuff.” She crosses her arms and her gaze falls on the cigarette between Hank’s fingers. “Can I bum one?”

There’s a coyness to her voice. Hank isn’t sure if it’s part of her charm or part of her need, but either way he silently reaches into his pocket and pulls out the battered pack.

“Knock yourself out.” As he holds the carton in place for her to pluck one out with the tips of her slim fingers, he warns, “They’ve been hiding in my drawer, so some are kinda broken.”

Before Robin can even ask, Hank is already passing her his shitty, Bic lighter.  She says, “Thanks,” and struggles twice to catch a flame before succeeding. She hands it back to him and busies herself with her phone. Hank’s cigarette is practically burnt to the filter when Pedro slides out.

“Hank! Come do shots with me!”

“Come on, man. Didn’t you learn from last time?”

“Hell no!” Pedro sing-songs and pops back inside. Hank gives Robin a look as he puts out his cigarette in the rain sodden ashtray.

It’s then that Hank feels the familiar vibration of an incoming text message in his back pocket. Something inside him skips at the thought of it being Connor. Silently psyching himself up only to find that it’s from his sister instead. Obviously. Unless Hank texts him, Connor isn’t going to bother texting back.

 **Sally** **  
** _The fuck did u go??? Mom’s freaking out!_

 **Hank** **  
** _I’m out w friends. Wat’s the big fucking deal?_

 **Sally** **  
** _Srsly??_

Hank refuses to respond but that doesn’t stop Sally as she machine guns messages.

 **Sally** **  
** _Ugh_

 **Sally** **  
** _Wtv Hank_

 **Sally**  
_Ur an ass_

 **Sally**  
_U better not drive drunk bc if mom has to deal with u getting scraped off the highway I’ll bring u back n kill u myself_

Hank winces at that last one. Sally’s got an excellent fucking aim when she doesn’t feel like beating around the bush. She doesn’t _accidentally_ hit below the belt like that.

He flips back to his thread with Connor compulsively, ignoring the tension forming in the center of his chest as he looks through his own shitty replies. Connor’s last message about working on the psych homework stares up at him, so unassuming in its simplicity.

 _You don’t gotta do that_ , Hank replies. Finally. Like he hadn’t willfully left Connor on goddamn read for four and a half hours. Despite it all, Connor’s reply comes almost instantly.

 **Connor**  
_I didn’t want you to get into trouble._

The words slug Hank directly in that balloon that he’s been trying to pretend doesn’t exist just underneath his ribs. “Well, _shit_.”

It’s like Connor’s been taking punching lessons from Sally.

“Something wrong?” Robin asks as she stubs her cigarette out next to Hank’s in the ashtray. Her nails are bitten short, and the sparkling, purple paint is so chipped that it hardly makes sense to keep wearing it at all at this point.

“Nope,” Hank replies, popping the ‘p’. “You coming? Gary’s a fish. We don’t get in there soon, and you can count on a fun-filled night of complete sobriety while cleaning up his vomit.”

Robin wrinkles her nose prettily and pushes off the railing of the porch.

The thing about Gary is that drinking with him always feels like a race. He likes to get drunk fast, and he’s lit so often that Hank really would worry about him if he wasn’t too caught up in drowning out his own shit to think about it that hard. It takes a lot more to get him wasted than even Hank and especially Pedro.

The thing about Pedro is that he’s too laid back for his own good. Eager to just have a good time, he takes the shots that are placed in front of him. He says yes if his friends want to go out back to smoke even though he’s trying to quit. He doesn’t utter a damn word if the girl he’s into leans a little too heavily into Hank’s space.

The thing about Hank is that he’s selfish. He could tell his buddy that he’s drinking too much, but then he wouldn’t have anyone to indulge with. He could smoke on his own, but then the world would be quiet around him, leaving him to wonder why he’s even here when his little brother isn’t. He could sit on the other side of Gary so that there was more space between him and the chick that his friend likes but then he wouldn’t have the distraction of low level arousal in his belly as he shoots back his third shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

The ghost show that Robin had hated isn’t on anymore, because even if Hank is a selfish asshole, he’s also a fucking gentleman. As much as he’d like to see Pedro’s reaction to the reveal in episode seven, he isn’t going to force it on someone who doesn’t even like horror. They flip through several different streaming systems on the Kayes’ television before settling on a ten year old comedy that they mostly don’t pay attention to as they talk loudly over the sound.

Hank doesn’t have to think about shit. Not about tomorrow or about his mom’s tear swollen eyes or about Connor who’s probably out there _doing his homework_.

Doing Hank’s homework too, actually, and isn’t that fucked up.

About an hour in and Gary has given up hitting on Robin, who seems to find him infinitely amusing but not appealing in the least. Hank’s running a mental betting process on how long it will take him to call his ex. Gary doesn’t think anyone knows that they still have sex. If he wanted it to be a secret, Hank thinks that he ought to have been a little more discreet.

Two hours and Pedro has started trying to get them all to bet on the most obscure things. How much salt is in the casserole ingredients that he just pulled out of Mrs. Kayes’s recipe box. Will the guy in whatever show they’ve ended up stuck on get the sucker punch he so richly deserves. Is the unmarked bottle in the pantry cooking wine or vinegar. It’s very Pedro. So is losing every one of those bets. Not that it deters him. Robin looks confused where she’s sitting forward in her seat, Hank’s arm slung behind her on the sofa. Her cheeks are flushed.

Three hours and Pedro has started to peter out of consciousness. Hank texts Connor, _Ur_ s _weet,_ and doesn’t even feel fucking cheesy about it. Gary has disappeared, coincidentally right around the time that a car pulls up in the drive. Hank takes two shots. Robin only joins him for one. The image of Cole with his face bruised and swollen and bloody snaps into his brain for half a second through his swimming, numb vision. He takes another shot and gives his head a shake. A neat, little trick he learned from Gary. It’s tequila and the salt lingers on his lips.

Four hours and Robin pulls out the Fireball. The smell of it alone is enough to make Hank’s stomach churn. Not dangerously. Just enough to remind him of puking up cinnamon anti-freeze the first time that he’d ever gotten drunk. He tells her the story and they both laugh about it more than the story merits.

_Don’t think about Connor. Don’t think about Cole._

“—he was very inspired by Michelangelo’s work on St. Peter’s Basilica when it came to designing the dome,” Robin expounds in her continued rant about what Hank thinks is maybe some church in Europe. He lost track around two minutes in, but she seemed too immersed to notice. The more she gets into it, the more her arms start waving with enthusiasm. Which is cute. “The columns are very much Bramante’s style, though. Wren kinda...meshed the two.”

“I…what?” is all he can muster up to say when he realizes that she’s stopped talking.

“Sorry,” she replies with a humorless huff of laughter. “I know I get boring when I drink.”

The solemn look on her face tells Hank that this is something that she’s heard before. He feels guilt gnawing at his stomach. What else is new.

“S’fine. Being super into something’s not boring.” Hank’s words come out more slurred than he intended. It’s the couch. Must be, he thinks, registering how deeply he’s melted into the musty old thing. “S’hot.”

“It isn’t when it’s about old architecture,” Robin bemoans as she slouches into the sofa next to him with a pout.

“Your audience is just too fuckin’ dumb. Or drunk.” Hank pauses. “Or both. I’m pretty sure I’m both. I’m just a looost cause.” Hank gives a dismissive wave alongside a self-deprecating grin. Robin giggles. She sits back up again, the alcohol making her sway to a music that only she seems to hear.

“You’re sweet,” she tells him with a smile tossed his way, and Hank instantly scoffs at the thought.

“Don’t be fooled, sweetheart. I’m salt in a bowl of sugar.”

This makes Robin snicker again, but this time Hank finds it infectious enough to join. It’s easy to laugh at himself.

“I’m more of a savory gal, anyway.” She cocks her head and reaches for the half empty bottle of vodka littered amongst the pizza boxes, rolling papers, and Hank’s empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table in front of them.

“I dunno,” Hank says, thoughtfully. “Too much of that salt can kill ya.”

_Too much of me can kill you._

The phrase echoes in his head as if there’s some truth to it, even when he’s disgustingly drunk.

“Alright, so you’re not into architecture or sugar. That narrows it down. What _do_ you like?” she asks and sways again with an added, friendly slap to Hank’s thigh.

Connor floods into his thoughts like a busted dam. From his small smirks to his sass to his tear soaked lips in the bathroom light…

_Fuck._

Hank stumbles to his feet before that particular train of thought can crash and burn.

“Smoking,” he declares. “I like smoking.”

Proud of his answer, he makes his way to the porch door, the cold weather hitting him hard. Not hard enough to sober his ass up, but he still welcomes the biting wind. He pulls his phone out and sees that Connor has replied. Hours ago. Of course.

 **Connor** **  
** _Don’t tell anyone._

Hank’s vision blurs for a moment as he tries to decipher what the fuck Connor is talking about. Oh, right. Sweetness.

 **Hank** **  
** _Everyone knows con,,,,,,,,,, u being sweet is liek,,,, the worst kept secrt,,,,,,, and thats why eeveryoen likes u_

He taps ‘send’ and shoves his phone into his pocket, not sure if he wants to read the reply. He really shouldn’t text after tequila. And whiskey. And vodka. And what the fuck was that other stuff? Pimms? He can’t remember. He stumbles onto the porch and once again parks himself next to the rain sodden ashtray.

“Aw, fuck me,” Hank moans when he sees the single cigarette left in his pack. He’s had this damn thing shoved in his drawer for months without using it. He can’t even remember smoking so many. What a fucking waste.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Robin’s voice cuts in, startling him.

He lets out a low chuckle. “Small world.”

“Got any more smokes?”

She stands in front of him with that same sway in her movements. She’s a much more graceful drunk than the rest of them put together.

“Last one,” he says as he shows her the evidence.

“Fuck.”

“Here.” He rests the cylinder carefully between his lips and lights it. He passes it to Robin, giving her the honors. “We can share this one.”

She smiles before taking the cigarette between her chipped fingernails. “What a gentleman.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Hank quips, watching intently as her lips purse around the filter. She’s standing closer than she needs to, but maybe that’s the alcohol talking. Smells a bit like vanilla and vodka, too. (What does Connor smell like? Fuck, he can’t even remember. He should. He should remember. He remembers how Connor felt pressed against his chest. Why can’t he remember what he smelled like?) Hank nods toward the embers as they flare orange in the low light. “Those will kill you, yaknow?”

Robin grins again, all coy around the edges, and passes the smoke back. “Feels like I might’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“Damn,” Hank replies with a sigh. He has to reach up between them where the heel of her hand is nearly touching his chest to take the cigarette from her. Definitely standing nearer than necessary. “And here I thought I was giving some...lifetime wisdom.”

He means ‘once-in-a-lifetime’. Whatever. Robin chuckles anyway. Huffs out a breath like she’s laughing more the sake of it. Hank will take it. He sucks a long drag into his lungs, some sense of catharsis coming from the reminder of how he rides the razor edge of fate when he does it. It’s...probably not the best reaction to have, really.

“‘M sorry by the way,” Robin tells him, suddenly. Her words slur a little at the beginning.

Hank’s brow furrows as he presses his hand toward her so she can have a turn. “What for?”

“Last time we met. I was in a shit spot after my breakup,” she elaborates. Hank remembers how that was all she could talk about. Well, that and her diet at the time. Hank hasn’t heard either escape her lips tonight. “I was sort of...I don’t know—”

“Obnoxious.” The word slips like air over Hank’s drunken tongue. Guilt punches him in the center of his chest immediately. “Shit. That was fuckin’ rude.”

He groans, and for a moment he pictures Sally nodding in approval over such aim.

Robin looks surprised. Amused, even. Not hurt, though. She nods to herself around a sharp pull of the cigarette before replying, “I mean...yeah.”

“Doesn’t matter what I thought, anyway,” Hank says with a shake of his head. His opinion on what she likes to talk about didn’t need to be said. There was no reason to make her feel like shit just because they didn’t have those things in common. Luckily, it seems to have been more situational. “We all got...yaknow, whatever, right?”

She smiles up at him with all of her teeth. “Profound.”

“A fount,” Hank tells her a bit nonsensically. He doesn’t feel like enunciating every thought that pops into his dumbass head. Look where that’s gotten him so far. “And I don’t—I don’t think that shit now. It’s just...yeah.”

“I talked about him a lot. I get it.”

“Sounds like an ass.”

Honestly, Hank doesn’t remember a lot of what she said about the guy. He doesn’t fool himself into believing that she thinks he does, either. It’s the thought that counts. She tosses the cigarette down onto the porch decking and stubs it out with her flats.

“‘M also sorry,” she says slowly, swaying forward on her feet, “we didn’t finish what we started.”

Robin looks up at him through her lashes, and even through the syrupy thickness of the world around him, Hank feels a sudden burst of anxiety and anticipation in his belly. It would be a really terrible idea but a _distracting_ idea. An idea that would stop his brain from spinning. Maybe.  

“Pedro’s into you,” Hank replies. Low in his chest. More an argument to himself than anything else.

She leans closer, hands sliding over his sides through the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not into Pedro.”

“I’m—” _into someone else,_ he wants to say. The words almost leave him as easily as his declaration of ‘obnoxious’ had earlier. It freaks him the fuck out how quick that bubbles up. How natural it feels to push someone away out of some twisted loyalty to a person who doesn’t deserve his shit. Yeah. Fuck it. That’s the motto of the night, right? “Can’t argue with that.”  

She’s good at kissing, he won’t deny her that. Her lips are soft and taste of cherry with a lingering hint of nicotine. He’s not sure when she got the chance to reapply the gloss, but it’s there. Sticky against his mouth. (Just as soft as he imagines but too thick. Flavored in a way that other lips wouldn’t be. Connor in lip shine, though. Isn’t that a thought?)

He presses deeper at the stray thoughts that curl like flames at the back of his mind. Licks along the seam of Robin’s mouth. She opens, back bowing and hips pressed flush against his as Hank chases the desire and the feeling. He doesn’t need it to be special. Sex is a rush of endorphins and all he really wants is to feel good. Or maybe to feel reckless.

Fuck, either one will work right now.

Robin’s hands slide beneath his sweater, nails scraping into mid-back as much as they can with how blunted they are. She moans low in her throat as Hank sucks a spot just beneath her ear. For a moment he does feel good. Very good in fact.

“The _fuck_ , Hank?”

Hank pulls back so fast that his vision swims. Or maybe it’s not the expeditious retreat that gets him. A wave of drunkenness slams into him like a freight train the second that he puts distance between himself and Robin.

Pedro is standing in the sliding glass door, sleepiness still visible in the lines of his face but fading fast in his anger. Pedro doesn’t get pissed. Hank has never— _never_ —seen Pedro pissed.

At least until right this goddamn second.

“Fuck,” Hank says, succinctly, and it takes considerable effort to keep from slurring around the word.

“Yeah,” Pedro replies, and that’s it. Nothing else. He slams the door behind him so hard that the glass wobbles in it’s frame.

Hank looks back at Robin who seems affected but not guilty in the way that Hank does. The image of Connor flashes into Hank’s mind. It’s all rosy and light in his inebriated memory. Bright smile when he lets it show and kindness and doing homework for Hank because he doesn’t want him to get into trouble.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, again. With feeling.  

“Wow. That was...kinda awkward,” Robin says, trailing off with a small nervous laugh that Hank doesn’t join. Not this time. He just keeps staring at the void that Pedro left behind, its edges growing and clawing inside him the more he realizes how much he doesn’t fucking want this. Any of this.

“He was fucking pissed,” Hank finally adds.

“Yeah…” she replies, awkward and stilted.

“Doesn’t that make you feel shitty?”

“Well, I mean...it sucks,” Robin states. Not unkind but not particularly considerate either. “He’s your friend, but it’s not like we were a thing.”

“I hurt him,” Hank’s voice comes out quiet, almost meek in light of his fuck up.

Robin shrugs. “He’ll get over it.”

_I won't._

Hank’s guilt morphs and shifts and shapes into Connor. Standing there, in that same spot, looking just as betrayed as Pedro. Connor’s eyes, though—his big, brown eyes—are glistening with tears, a vision that Hank is already familiar with. His mind uses that against him. Why?

_You know why._

He’s so lost in his building self-hatred that he doesn’t even notice Robin leaning in until her lips plant a kiss against his stubbled jaw. He jumps back as if her touch was red-hot coals.  

“No,” Hank states. Firm.  

“Why?” She sounds petulant at this. Like a child. It’s not as pretty as it once was.

“S’not right.”

Robin considers this and gives a defeated sigh. “Because of Pedro?”

“Yes?” Hank tries. “No?”

“Well which one is it? Because it looks like my fucking pride is hanging on what you decide.”

She’s exasperated, leaning back against the railing and crossing her arms in irritation. Hank’s stomach twists again.

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” he says, hoping that it sounds like he means it. He looks up into her eyes only to see that she’s nowhere close to tears. There’s a fury behind her glare that makes him wonder how badly he’s burned this bridge, too.

“I’m sorry...” he adds again, uselessly, before leaving Robin alone in the dark on an empty porch. Hank’s sure he hears her calling him a shithead as the door falls closed behind him.

The living room is a fucking mess, but there’s no sign of Pedro or Gary. Hank snatches the half empty bottle of vodka and storms through the front door, taking a heavy swig and shaking his head violently in the hope that his brain will just...shut the fuck up.

No use. Pedro’s words keep bouncing around in there. Robin’s cherry gloss still lingers on his lips. Connor’s…everything haunts his very core. He walks. He doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, but he figures that anywhere other than here is good enough for him. Maybe if he keeps moving and keeps drinking and keeps pushing his feelings down, he’ll eventually black out. Anything to stop his thoug—

The sound of tires screeching yanks him back into the moment. A car, mere feet from him, is blaring its horn while the diver inside cusses him out. Their voice is muffled by the glass but still loud enough for Hank to hear. Unaware or uncaring of the building panic in Hank’s eyes even in the blinding bright of the headlights. He had crossed the road without paying any fucking attention, and now his heart is racing as the car’s horn carries on relentlessly.

Hank breaks into a frantic run.  

He reaches a park after a time, empty and desolate in the late night. Street lights reflect in the remains of the earlier downpour and across the rain soaked slides and swings and monkey bars.

Hank doesn’t stop. He keeps rushing through until he crashes against a stone railing that stops him from falling headfirst into the Detroit River. He takes a moment to catch his breath and let the burning in his lungs stop. The cold air only makes the pain feel sharper.

He throws back a swig from the bottle that he’s white knuckling around its neck. As he lets the alcohol continue to numb him, Hank takes a moment to let his vision—unfocused as it is—soak in the distant view of the Gordie Howe Bridge and out to the beautiful skyline beyond. He downs another gulp and glances down at the river below where the water laps at the stone as if beckoning him to take a dip inside its inky depths...

“Fuck!” Hank curses himself hoarse and throws the bottle. Hears it disappear into the darkness below with an unceremoniously quiet splash.

He clings to the railing. Cold and wet in his grasp but the closest thing to a lifeline that he’s got. It’s not the tether he wants. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. There’s an unread text from Connor, from hours ago, the words on his screen causing Hank’s eyes to burn.

 **Connor** **  
** _Hank? Are you ok?_

The message was sent in reply to his sloppy, sober facade, but the words ring truer to the Hank of right now. The Hank that’s desperate enough to text him at such an hour. In such a state.

 **Hank** **  
** _No,,,,,, no i’m fuckin not_

 **Hank** **  
** _I need you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](robocop.tumblr.com) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](tsunderehank.tumblr.com)!
> 
> (Tho with Tumblr being on fire and all that, who's to say how long that will last lol!)


	6. Part I, September 23rd 2028 (Connor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait again! The holidays make it a little hard to write fast so we hope you will forgive us and enjoy! And that you all had happy holidays!
> 
> I don't think anything in this warrants any TW or CW's like last time. Other than maybe:  
> • TW Drunkenness  
> • TW Self Blame

**September 23rd, 2028**

Connor has learned a lot in his month of being shoved into a more social setting on a regular basis, particularly about what a psychologist might call ‘emotional intelligence’. In practice, it is not what he might consider his strongest suit compared to his theoretical knowledge.

He was designed with the metaphoric Library of Alexandria a mere thought away as well as software meant to detect the most minute of expressions and changes in heart rate. Reading body language isn’t an exact science, however. A smile in a moment of grief could be a genuine sign of pain funneled through a lens of social awkwardness, or it could be duper’s delight. Several common signals of a guilty conscious are the same as a nervous disposition.

Humans are both incredibly simple and needlessly complex.

But no matter how big a contradiction humans can be, none of that means that Connor isn’t aware that Hank was being an ass today. He has played with the idea that it might be his own fault. That he might have pressed the boundaries too insistently in the days following his upgrade. The hug had already been outside of their usual comfort zone. The transparent desire for more was in an entirely different realm. It was an impulsive gesture that breached some unspoken rule, and now he must suffer the consequences.

That had been a week ago, though. Could a reaction like that really be so delayed? Humans are, as he mentioned, confusing. Hank more so than most at times.

Connor’s own response is just as bewildering. He is both worried and angry. He longs for some explanation but also wants to intentionally put Hank off from telling him anything at all. Many of the impulses that fire under his chassis are contradictory in nature. Unsure whether he wants a clear answer that he’s not even sure exists.

It’s almost a relief when Hank texts him in disjointed language with bizarre typos, sentences broken up by too many commas, and all of those feelings condense into one. Into concern. It doesn’t take Hank as long to reply as it has the rest of the night, but it isn’t a quick thing regardless. He wonders if this is how Hank felt when Connor was gone. When he went silent. He adds a couple more stones to his resolve not to let something like that happen again.

When Hank says that he needs him, he doesn’t even think twice.

Connor doesn’t go into stasis often. Only when he needs to. Ever since—well...for a while now, he’s been uneasy about putting himself in a position of vulnerability. Occasionally his system does need it, for updates especially, but certainly not as often as a human might. Amanda is used to him shuffling around at night. He usually keeps to his bedroom, but sometimes he gets restless.

The car is parked in front of the house today, a habit of Amanda’s when there’s no notice of inclement weather, and a little bout of rain certainly doesn’t count as such. Hank sends him an address that’s so much more coherent and well-spaced than his previous messages that Connor has to assume that he used his location settings rather than typing it himself.

Connor is programmed with the ability to drive, and he intends to wipe the car’s internal memory of the trip if at all possible. Putting it in self-drive mode is probably for the best, though. Just in case. Many top-line, newer model cars have come equipped with the option as of late. A few taxi companies as well that are usually more expensive to rent.

Maybe something like that would have been better, he wonders even as the car rounds the corner out of his neighborhood. His only line of credit is listed under Elijah Kamski. Connor thinks of Kamski’s knowing smile as they had talked about Hank and decides he would rather not explain the bill.

When he arrives at the address, it takes him a moment to locate Hank. It’s a park, and for an instant he worries that Hank may have sent the wrong location altogether.

Through the shimmering drizzle and polluted light of the streetlamps, though, he finally spots him. Hank is sitting on one of the swings, his legs bent awkwardly to accommodate his height and the push of his knees swinging him lazily back and forth. His forehead is pressed to one of the cool chains that the little plastic seat is suspended on. His head of curls has gone limp in the wet air.

He shows no signs of noticing Connor as he approaches.

“Hank?” Connor begins, cautiously. Hank doesn’t move at first, save for the gentle swaying of the swing that he can’t seem to control, but his eyes slide to Connor from their corners.

He extends an unsteady hand, fingers gripping Connor’s sweater over his hip. He watches Hank study the soft material between his fingers, almost reverently, but Connor isn’t standing that close. Hank has to tilt the seat precariously to reach him at all. Connor shuffles his feet closer to keep him from falling.

Hank tugs him nearer still until Connor’s legs are slotted neatly between Hank’s knees, balance shifting so Hank is leaning forward. A gasp of air escapes Connor’s lips as Hank presses his brow to the center of his chest. The heat of his skin can’t pass through the thick cotton of Connor’s shirt, but that pressure is like a brand over the circle of Connor’s regulator. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he settles them onto Hank’s shoulders even as they itch to comb through damp, blonde curls. His grip focuses instead on the broadness of Hank’s frame beneath his fingers, resisting the command to give them a tight squeeze for no productive reason.

“‘M sorry,” Hank mumbles against soft fabric. Connor thinks he’s starting to understand.

“You’re drunk,” Connor finds himself replying. Not accusatory in the least. A quiet statement of fact that whispers over his tongue in the dark.

Hank snorts. “Thought that was obvious.”

“I’ve never been drunk texted before. I didn’t have much to compare it to.” Connor tries to pull back, but Hank’s fingers tighten against his sides. “It’s cold. We should get you into the car.”

Hank only grunts out a response, and before Connor can repeat himself, he stands. Connor holds tightly to the width of his shoulders to steady that wobbling balance. Hank rocks a little on his feet.

“Hey,” he says, his gaze unfocused as it settles on Connor’s face. “You’re fucking pretty, yaknow?”

Connor can’t help a flare of amusement at his center. “Is that right?”

“Like you don’t know it.”

“I might have an inkling.” It’s not fair, really. That after an entire day of Hank being prickly and ill-tempered that it should be so easy for Connor to slip back into fondness. “Let’s go, Hank.”

Hank nods, lashes catching in the low light as they flutter lazily. He moves to fall at Connor’s side, but his foot catches on the wood planks that box in the cedar chips underneath the swing set. Connor catches him effortlessly.

“Shit,” Hank forces out, a little bit of a strain behind the words.

Connor slides his arm beneath Hank’s, the majority of Hank’s bulk shifting onto his shoulder. He can take the extra weight. “Come on.”

“You’re strong,” Hank mumbles as Connor guides him to the car, resting him gently against the back door. “Coach Jimmy’d love you...”

“It’s you we’re trying to get him to pick, remember?” Connor figured out long ago that it was best not to ask why Hank was kicked off the basketball team last year and why he hadn’t tried for a spot on the football during the summer, either. Whatever the case, though, he knows that Hank—however apprehensive it makes him—misses being a part of a team. Misses having something that allows him to vent physically in that manner. Connor is doing his best to encourage Hank to try his luck, even if it is too late for football.

“Yeah...dunno about that. He don’t suffer shitheads.”

“Isn’t it ‘fools’ that a person doesn’t suffer?” Connor asks as he extends his arm and helps Hank into the passenger side. He can feel how pliant Hank is against him, and for a split second he relishes the intimate trust between them.

“It is—” Hank lolls his head when he lands on his seat with an ‘oomph’. “—but ’m a shithead.”

“You’re just drunk,” Connor attempts, gently tapping Hank’s sprawling knee out of the path of the door. “Plenty of people do that without it being a smear on their character.”

Connor intends his words to come out comforting, but he only gets the saddest of smiles in return. He tries to think nothing of it as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Wow. You rich?” Hank questions lazily, running his hands along the finely crafted autopilot that decorates the dash with carefully selected, soothing lights and wood paneling.

“Um…yes?” Connor chooses to spare Hank the technicalities of his answer.

“Huh. Okay. Neat.” Hank gives a thoughtful nod before leaning into the microphone to recite his address. He plops back into the leather seat before adding, “Had one, once. A car, I mean. Second hand and not near as fancy.”

“Speaking of which, how did you even get here?” Connor clicks on his seat belt. “I don’t see your motorcycle.”

Hank swallows thickly around nothing and says, “I just…ran…” before trailing off.

“You ran?”

“I ran...and fucking ran till I was at the fuckin’ river and—and then I dragged you outa bed—” Hank lets out a low groan and brings his hands to his face. “Bet you’re real fucking pissed. ‘M sorry.”

“You needed my help, Hank. I could never be pissed about that,” Connor tells him earnestly. He confirms the autopilot to life, and the car whirs as it pulls onto the rain slicked roads. The A.I. has taken the conditions into account, making the journey a full ten minutes slower. Selfishly, Connor finds he’s alright with that. “It sounds like you were running from something.”

“Yeah, my own bullshit. And then you showed up in a fuckin’—” Hank gives his arm a dramatic flair across the elegant interior. “—getaway car.”

“Amanda doesn’t know I took it,” Connor confesses.

Hank rolls his head in Connor’s direction with a little furrow between his brows and asks, “‘‘Manda’?”

“My mother.”

“Wait…Connor. Did you do some rule-breaking?” There’s a hint of a smile across Hank’s lips and Connor, desperate for more, gives the smallest nod. “Check you out. There’s a chaotic good in you yet.”

“You needed my help. And she was sleeping.”

Hank watches him with shrewd eyes even through the haze of alcohol and says, “Doesn’t like me, does she? I’ve only seen her face a couple times, but she always glares at me.”

“She doesn’t like many people, Hank.”

“I’m very proud of you. Clearly ‘m a great influence.”

“Thanks, I always wanted a badge of—” Connor’s peripheral warning system blips in alarm as a car rushes through its red light and across the intersection. He reaches for the break long before the the A.I.’s defensive protocol kicks into gear. The sudden stop causes them to jolt forward in their seats as the speeding driver zooms mere inches from the car’s bumper.

Hank shouts, “Fucking asshole!” as he falls back into the cradle of his seat.

“Drivers are more likely to run a red light the later and quieter that it is,” Connor diagnoses calmly.

“It’s horseshit! If the fucking autopilot didn’t see it coming we could’ve—”

“It’s alright Hank. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen,” Connor assures, and Hank stares at him for long after their light turns green once again.

“I honestly believe that, Connor,” Hank whispers before turning to watch the darkened streets. It’s started to rain again, and the city lights shimmer on every wet surface around them.

Connor reaches between them to press the override button on the console so that the A.I. knows it’s alright to continue along the route. He should have chosen to drive the car himself. It would have given him something better to do with his hands. Something to focus on.

“You’re too good, yaknow?” Hank tells him suddenly. Connor hadn’t noticed him turning to look at him again, but when he glances up from the soft, melodic voice of the car’s computer, Hank is watching him with pensive eyes. “Sometimes I think—fuck, I swear you’re a robot you’re so good.”

There’s a startled warning that pops into the corner of Connor’s vision for the briefest of moments before Connor is able to push it away. Hank means it as a figure of speech. He isn’t speaking literally.

Something of his concern must slip through the cracks of his chassis, because Hank continues with a worried sort of rush to his words, “No, I don’t—shit, I don’t mean you’re like...boring or whatever the fuck. I just—you’re so—I fucked that up.” Hank looks down at his shoes. Scratches the back of his head. His movements are a panicked flail that Connor can’t resist finding endearing

“I know what you meant, Hank,” Connor attempts to reassure him. He does. Despite that moment of alarm that grasped his internal processors, he knows.

Regardless, Hank groans and slumps down into his seat. Connor wants to mention how his slouched posture lowers the effectiveness of his seat belt by a significant margin but feels that perhaps the timing isn’t right.

“‘M gonna wake my fucking mom,” Hank grumbles in a change of topic. He buries his hands in his hoodie pockets, his posture turning defensive. Based on the coordinates, Connor would guess it’s because they’re getting close to his house. The neighborhood has been added onto in the last few years, but the heart of it is burgeoning on twenty years old. Most of them are kept up well. A few, scattered homes show signs of neglect, though. He doesn’t imagine Hank living in a house like that, if only based on the stories of his family that Hank just can’t seem to help sharing.

“I should be able to get you inside without disturbing anyone,” he offers after a moment.

Hank snorts a little. “Dunno, Con.”

“I _can_ ,” Connor insists and something about his expression causes a smile to bloom across Hank’s face.

“Yeah, yeah. If you wanna go up to my room, you could’ve just said so.”

And honestly, Hank is far too drunk for Connor to respond to that in any honest sort of way. He understands the implication behind Hank’s words, and any other day he would like to follow them. Instead, he gives Hank a withering look as the the car pulls up alongside the curb of a two-story house that Connor assumes belongs to the Andersons. It’s picturesque in a homey, lived in sort of way that fits the image that Connor had conjured up in his mind while also surpassing it in its authenticity.

He is vaguely certain that it would terrify most people to know how easy it is to hack into the security system of a home like this. It’s not like most people need to worry about it. Petty criminals looking for a smash-and-grab typically don’t have the resources for that sort of thing. Connor, however, was built with them.

It takes Connor 5.63 seconds to deactivate the Anderson’s alarm. It would have been shorter if he’d had a visual on the control panel, but that would require setting off the warning chime upon entering the residence. Hank seems too drunk to notice his short bout of distraction. That or he’s too busy looking for his keys in only three possible pockets. They aren’t there. Connor could have told him that much ahead of time.

“Fuck,” Hank says and presses his head to the blue painted metal of the front door. “There’s a spare over—”

Hank waves his hand lazily. Connor’s eyes follow the direction of his motions toward a slightly unkempt line of bushes in front of the home. The hide-a-key stone is admittedly convincing, and he takes comfort in the knowledge that there’s a small combination lock instead of it being open and exposed.

Even if it does take Hank five tries before giving up and just telling Connor the code. Hank makes him promise not to tell anyone.

He looks pale as Connor slides the key into the lock, swallowing repeatedly and standing unusually still. Hank is good at putting up a veneer of coherence, Connor has noticed, but his blood alcohol concentration has reached a level that makes Connor well aware of what those little shifts in his demeanor foretell.

“Hank?” Connor begins and lifts the door up by the knob by just the barest of millimeters so that the sound of the bolt isn’t too loud as it slides out of place. “Can you make it to the bathroom?”

Hank’s larynx bobs. He nods but his feet have chosen a direction before Connor can even orient himself to the shape of the house upon opening the door. Hank bolts up the steps, vision seeming to tunnel down to a specific door just beyond the landing.

Connor trails behind. He’d like to get a good look at the downstairs. Maybe meet Kurgan and scratch the place beneath his collar that Hank says he likes. His concern for Hank takes priority, however. He follows up and past the door that Hank had disappeared behind. Hank’s form is already hunched over the toilet. His body seizes up as his stomach heaves, emptying some of its contents into the porcelain bowl as he clings onto it for dear life.

Connor’s thirium pump aches at the sight of him. He’s never had the experience before (for obvious reasons), but it looks...painful.

Hank’s hair is in the way as well, Connor notices. That can’t at all be pleasant. He moves to Hank’s side and gathers his hair up at the nape of his neck with one hand to keep it out of the way. A fair compromise. For as much as Connor wants to help, there’s little he can do.

“Th’ks,” Hank says between waves. Only the bare minimum of sounds necessary for the word to be understood leave his mouth before he retches again. Multiple articles and answer sites (albeit littered with typos) tell Connor that a cool rag on the back of the neck might be helpful. That would require him to release Hank’s hair, though, which seems counterintuitive. Even then, he has no idea where the rags might be.

He _can_ change his temperature at will. He can even isolate that alteration to a specific location in his body. And of course there’s his chassis. The smooth polymer blend would be quite soothing when combined with a dip in internal temperature, he believes.

It would be irresponsible of course, but…

Hank coughs and tenses, his own heat spiking with the exertion. It isn’t as though he’s paying close attention.

Connor lets the synthetic skin on his unoccupied hand recede, the bone white of it shining in the harsh light of Hank’s bathroom.

Connor can see the immediate effect bleed through Hank’s body. He practically melts against Connor’s touch, and Connor makes a note of how much he enjoys that even if he’s yet to fully grasp why.

“Feels nice...” Hank murmurs. He even lets out a small moan when Connor slides his fingers ever so slightly lower to tease beneath the collar of Hank’s shirt, silently agreeing with the sentiment. The moment is ruined, however, when Hank twitches toward the bowl again. For all of Hank’s heaving there’s little substance coming back up which is never a good sign.  

“You didn’t eat much today.” His statement comes out more like a passing thought. Another piece to the Hank Puzzle. All Hank can do is let out a bitter laugh.

“Uh oh. I’m in trouble,” he quips with a darkness creeping around the edges. His eyes are closed, but he smiles almost knowingly.

“It’s not that,” Connor says, his brow pinching. “I’m worried how much you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“Too fuckin’ late for that.” Hank’s tone is playful, although neither truly believe the lie.

“Hank,” Connor reprimands. He pouts as Hank stumbles to stand. Taking this as a sign that he’s done with his digestive purge, Connor once again places himself as Hank’s steady footing.

“Hey!” Hank says a little too loudly. “I’m allo—wait. What time is it?” He tries to reach for his phone, but Connor manages to interject before reaching for the door.

“It’s two fifty sev—” Connor reads from his internal clock before Hank cuts him off by putting his finger to Connor’s lips. The motion startles Connor so much that there’s a jump in his system, revealing his chassis around Hank’s touch for the briefest of moments. Hank is too drunk to notice. He takes Connor’s silent panic as compliance and gestures across the hall toward a closed door. A quick calculation after collecting himself tells Connor they can make it in two wide steps. Less shuffling, more momentum. They cross the dark corridor and through the threshold into Hank’s room in one fluid motion, but Hank doesn’t lower his guard until the door is shut and the lamp is on.

“I’m allowed,” he continues as he breaks free from Connor’s support and stumbles deeper into the bedroom. “Fucking. Officially.”

Connor studies his surroundings as quickly as he can. Posters and prints decorate the walls, even the one supporting a large window. He steals a glance at Hank’s desk behind him. There’s a familiar organised chaos in its layout that he’s used to seeing in everything that Hank does.

Hank struggles to pull off his shoe and stumbles almost comically across the neat floor.

“‘Allowed’?” Connor wonders and effortlessly hitches both his hands below Hank’s armpits, hoisting him straight.

“Oh…don’t—it’s nothing,” he tells him as he pushes Connor clumsily away. “Just my stupid bullshit. Don’t worry.”

“I want to worry, Hank. If it’ll help.”

“Nothing will fuckin’ help.” He falls to the bed with an unceremonious plop, duvet bunching up around him. Wrinkled and unmade. It’s covered with printed constellations against its dark material.

“I’ll find a way to help.”

“Well, unless you can bring my baby brother back you’re fuuucked,” Hank drawls, but his tone is grim.

“What?” Connor replies stupidly. He groans internally at his response. Not something he knew androids could do. He seems to have found a way, regardless.

“Gonna to assume you’re surprised and not deaf.”

“I’m sorry.” Connor hushes his tone in respect, noticing the way that Hank studies him for a moment before falling back onto the bed.

“I can see you putting the dots together. Why I’m like this. Pretty fuckin’ predictable, huh?” That darkness in Hank's humor is starting to feel familiar.

Connor dares to approach the bed. He finds a spot of wrinkled stars near Hank’s middle and perches there while Hank starfishes on the mattress. He’s doing his best to avoid looking at Connor directly.

“What...was his name?” Connor asks. He’s apprehensive. Worried that at any moment Hank will clam up and leave more questions unanswered.

Hank pauses before the words come out of him quietly and deep in his chest as he says, “Cole. His name was Cole. He would’ve been eight today.”

There’s a tightness in Hank’s voice. Even Connor can feel its strain. His own existence leaves little room for experience with grief. He sees Hank so clearly struggling to fight back tears, and his instinct is to ask how he can fix this. How he can solve this problem. He was built for that. To solve problems. A useless function in the sight of his grieving friend.

“You talk about your family so often and so fondly,” Connor tries anyway. “It must hurt not to talk about him.” He keeps his voice at a gentle low. Hank freezes. In an instant, Connor preconstructs all the ways he’s going to be kicked out. Pushed away. Asked to leave.

Instead, Hank reaches for his hand.

Connor tilts his wrist to the side, palm opening up in offering, and Hank’s fingers slide across the lines of his flexion creases. Elijah had gone all out with the details of Connor’s design. Rachel and Chloe’s, too. It’s partially for a sense of realism and partially to keep that dexterity in the bends of their knuckles.

Hank doesn’t know that, though. Hank doesn’t see laser precision and tools and elegant programming. He just sees Connor’s skin, albeit through wobbling and unfocused vision. Connor resists turning up the sensitivity in his fingers just to see how it feels. It would be a bad idea. No matter how hard he can feel Hank squeezing his hand.

“Yeah,” Hank starts, all soft and reflective. “Yeah, guess so.”

Connor pulls their joined hands up into his lap, his thumbs moving over the ridge of Hank’s knuckles. Bones and skin. Ligament and vessels. No one crafted him on a table or a workbench. His pieces have never been scattered across someone’s desk. He came from nothing but a bundle of cells, and now here he is. Scars and all. There’s even one on the bend of Hank’s middle finger. It’s smooth and improperly healed, likely split from throwing a punch.

“What was he like?” Connor keeps his eyes on their hands where they’re folded together. Humans don’t always enjoy prolonged eye contact when discussing difficult topics, and he doesn’t want to scare this moment away. He hears Hank shifting and then pulling at Connor’s hand until Hank is sitting up, bent at an odd angle as he leans forward to press his head to Connor’s shoulder.

Connor stiffens. Hank’s front is pressed against his own, heart thudding in his chest. The placement of their hands can’t be comfortable for Hank.

He grumbles somewhere near Connor’s collarbone. “You’re fucking...corners.” The words don’t entirely make sense, and Connor is reminded that—despite his vomiting—Hank is still very drunk. “Just like...I just want to lay down. Room’s spinning.”

“You were already lying down,” Connor replies, contrary, even as he relaxes back onto pillows that smell of sleep and Hank’s shampoo. He unfolds his legs and lays them out across the bed. His movements slow and tentative, sure that Hank will change his mind soon and object. But Hank follows. His head comes to rest in the same spot over Connor’s chest, repositioning himself unsteadily until the length of him is lying half on top of Connor. The gentle pressure of his body pushes Connor deeper into the mattress. It’s...inexplicably pleasant. Hank is not light by any means, and something about that stirs an interest in Connor’s thirium. A comfort and a steadiness.

Hank is too tall for the position. His feet dangle off the end of the bed.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Connor warns as Hank tangles their legs until they slot together just right. “You won’t have the visual cues to let your body know that the room isn’t actually spinning. It will only make the sensation worse.”

Hank hums. Something in the exact note of it tells Connor that Hank isn’t heeding his perfectly reasonable advice. “Anyone ever tell ya you sound like a textbook?”

“Yes. You, specifically.”

Hank grunts out his reply. Connor gives into the urge to comb his fingers through Hank’s hair. Hesitantly, of course. It’s gone all frizzy and tangled in the rain, making it harder for Connor’s synthetic nails to find scalp to scrape gently across. When he does, Hank melts against him without complaint so Connor continues.

“You never answered me, by the way,” Connor tries, his voice barely more than a whisper. Hank is quiet for a long moment in response, and Connor would wonder if he was asleep if not for the slight tension that returns to his body before bleeding away and an uptick in his heart rate.  

“One year, uh…” Hank’s throat clicks with a thick swallow. “One year, he got me this...D&D book for Christmas. Yaknow, ‘cause I was into that shit. Said it was only from him, and he’d pay mom back when he was older. Picked it out himself. He was all worried he got the wrong thing.”

Connor asks, “Did he?” as he looks for shapes in the texture of Hank’s ceiling.

Hank huffs out a dry laugh that Connor feels fan over the collar of his sweater. “Yeah. Not that I’d...tell him. It was good. Put so much thought into it, it didn’t even matter that it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“He sounds sweet.”

“S’hard to describe him. He didn’t get to be somebody. Kids’re only a little bit of who they’re gonna be,” Hank says, his words trailing off. There’s a long moment of silence where he goes unusually still. Even the breath leaves him without intake for what seems like ages, brittle as it joins with the surrounding air. Finally he adds, “I killed him.”

Connor’s neural network operates in a split second, the shock of the statement shooting through Connor like a lance. Before he can even convince himself not to, there’s a news article pulled up from public record. He shouldn’t. He pushes the thought away, but it’s too late. His lightning quick processor has already picked up on the most important details. The date. The persons involved. The cause. The end result.

A truck had hydroplaned into the Anderson’s car. Hank Anderson was driving. There were no victims of the initial accident, but a young boy had died en route to the hospital. Cole. The photo of him shows a boy with Hank’s familiar chin still softened by baby fat. His toothy grin reaches his eyes.

It feels unfair that he should know this in a snap. Almost like he’s cheating.

“That isn’t true, Hank,” Connor breathes out, his hand falling away from Hank’s head. The thoughts coming out of it unjustly cruel compared to the truth.

“You don’t fucking know what happened,” Hank replies. Connor expects him jerk away in a snap of anger, but instead he holds Connor closer. Like he’s trying to eat up all the space between them.  

“Then tell me.” It feels like lying not to admit the truth. Connor doesn’t like it.

“I wasn’t good enough,” Hank tells him, much easier than Connor would have predicted. His voice is rough around the edges, though. Redirecting his sadness and his discomfort and his guilt into something that he understands how to process better. “If I’d just been fuckin’...a better driver, I could’ve—”

“No, you couldn’t.” Connor’s voice is stern. “You’re only human, Hank. You’re entitled to your mistakes.”

“‘M good at those,” Hank sighs, resigned. Too tired or too drunk (possibly both) to keep his focus on a facade of anger. “Did it today…”

Connor’s brow furrows at the change of subject. It’s possible that Hank is diverting, but Connor can’t seem to stopper his curiosity. “How so?”

“I kissed...I kissed someone,” Hank tells him, haltingly, and the words settle cold somewhere in Connor’s chest cavity. Not that they should. He and Hank aren’t—there’s no understanding between them. That clenching feeling that follows the chill doesn’t feel earned. Hank hasn’t done anything wrong. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. No matter what the his system diagnosis says.

He must have gone quiet and stiff for too long, because Hank’s arms tighten around him again. “Please don’t leave, Con,” he pleads in a hushed, timid voice.

“I’m not—” Connor begins, trying to shake off the shroud of emotion that’s blanketed his vision. He’s sure Hank can see right through it, though.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—I just wanted to not...be like this.”

“Like what?” Connor asks. He fumbles to regain his footing.

“Hurting. A fuck up.” There’s so much honesty in Hank’s voice that Connor can’t help but soften in response.

Connor whispers comfortingly, “You aren’t a fuck up, Hank.”

“I am, though.”

“You’re not—”

“I’m sorry,” Hank breaks in, sounding miserable. He presses down deeper into Connor’s sweater like he’s expecting the moment that it’s comfort is taken away. “It didn’t feel right. This feels right.”

It does feel right, Connor thinks. Even with Hank confessing something that stings in ways that Connor doesn’t understand. Even with one soaring blood alcohol level between them. Even with the knowledge that he may not get away with sneaking away from Amanda. ‘Right’ is still a word that fits nicely. Just like Hank fits nicely. Connor doesn’t move as Hank continues—his voice thick and beginning to slur—save for the hand that soothes up and down Hank’s back.

“I shouldn’t’ve—I wouldn’t—I forgot his birthday. I forgot, because all I could think about was your—you. I was so...drunk that I thought—you’re just— _fuck_ …”

It isn’t particularly eloquent, but Connor thinks he understands the finer points.

“I distracted you with my own issues,” Connor concludes. That memory has been lingering within his thoughts out of sheer fear over having stepped over some unspoken boundary. He’d been selfish. “I’m sorry for what happened in the bathroom.”

“Connor—no.” Hank sits up in protest but not before needing to steady himself from his own, sudden movement. The outrage comes out sleepy, but he holds his steely, blue gaze with Connor’s. “Fuck, man, you don’t—have to apologize for needing a fuckin’ hug.”

The words—as firm and angry as they sound—are heartfelt. Connor logs them away. Buries the words deep into his memory banks even while wishing that Hank would stop talking about the hug altogether. It’s...frustrating to remember how uncoordinated he was.

“I’m just—I’m not _supposed_ to forget him,” Hank barges ahead. He hangs his head in shame but tilts it ever so slightly to keep his eyes trained on their interlocking hands. Connor does his best not to look, worried that he might break the spell.

“You’re allowed to live, Hank.” Connor’s words are met with a frown, an expression that he can just barely make out at this angle. Hank says nothing for a beat. Long enough for Connor to start planning his exit again. Long enough for him to see himself scaling the window or climbing quietly down the steps.

Hank drops back down and curls against Connor’s chest instead. Wordlessly.

“I was too fucking scared to even face him. He called out for me, but all I could do was sit there till they pulled me out. That’s when I looked and saw…I saw his chin…his little chin. It was shaking. He was scared and about to cry, and that…that was the last time I saw him alive.” Connor can feel Hank clutching at his shirt, the cotton being pulled into Hank’s grip tighter as he opens up. “And then I go and forget his fucking birthday.”

Connor wonders if he’s clinging on for dear life.

“S’ry...this is a fuckin’...downer. It’s easy to talk to you. I like talking to you,” Hank mumbles. Connor’s sure there’s a hint of bashfulness to his tone.

“I like talking to you, too,” Connor whispers back.

“You don’t tell me shit, Connor,” Hank says with a sigh. Connor’s processor jumps for a moment in response. Hank must have felt the signs of surprise that Connor didn’t think to hide and brushes away his worry with a dismissive wave. “S’fine. Just...if you ever wanna...yaknow. It’s the least I could fuckin’ do.”

“Thank you, Hank. When I can, I will.” Connor smiles. He knows how much Hank means it, but there’s a sadness in him that permeates through. He presses unpursed lips to the top of Hank’s head and murmurs, “You aren’t going to remember any of this, though.”

“Hope I do,” Hank replies, hushed into Connor’s shirt. Connor can feel Hank curling up more around him. Shifting to get comfortable. He’s crashing. “Will you remind me?”

Connor isn’t fast enough to respond. Not fast enough to weigh his answers before Hank huffs a chuckle.

“So that’s how it is…” he says, trailing off. Within moments, his breathing comes out long and steady. Hank is out like a light, still clinging tightly to Connor. He’s entered that first, fragile stage of sleep, and Connor dares not move for fear of waking him.

He knows that eventually, however, he’s going to have to leave if he doesn’t want to get caught. The consequences might be so dire that not even Elijah could help him.

Still, there’s nothing in Connor’s memory mapping that makes him regret any of this. Hank will—the hangover alone will make sure of that—but Connor has spent so much time trying to picture Hank’s room. Piecing it together from all the photos sent from this very spot. As though by doing so he could learn more about Hank who is fast becoming his favorite (friend? person? comfort? possibility?) everything.

He steals another brush along Hank’s fine hairline before letting his eyes wander. He ends up focusing on the shelf across from him first and zooms in on the chaotic stacks of books. He scans every title, learning quite a bit about Le Guin as he does so. Hank seems to have an interest in her work the most.

There’s a pile of clothes nearby, still clean and sitting in the laundry basket. No doubt the rest of the family are wondering where it is.

Photos of them (the Andersons) are scattered across the wall against Hank’s desk.

Hank’s familiar jacket hangs on the back of his desk chair while old converse lay scattered near it. That’s when Connor notices his tie hanging on the doorknob. Something inside him whirs faster in reaction to the familiar item. He figured Hank had long since forgotten about it. Connor debates whether to bring it up later. Then again, it all depends on how much Hank _wants_ to remember.

Altogether, it renders a rather interesting picture. The boy with the science-fiction novels that romanticize anarchism is also the boy who hangs up pictures of his parents and his sisters on the wall. The boy with the beat up leather jacket is the same as the one with, by Connor’s count, three pairs of fluffy, pink socks in a laundry pile that seems to exclusively consist of his clothing.

Crude, dick drawings in the corners of his notebook and post-it notes that offer words of gruff encouragement looking up from his desk.

Posters of metal bands tacked to the wall and a star spattered comforter.

Books on _Dungeons & Dragons _next to a photo of his basketball team from years back.

A pack of cigarettes hidden poorly behind a vanilla scented candle.

 _Scarface_ and _Love, Simon_ next to the television.

Hank’s world is carefully balanced by contradictions, and Connor wonders how his tie fits in. How he fits in. If they fit in at all.

He waits until Hank has entered the third stage of sleep before even attempting to move from his spot. Hank grumbles as Connor shifts his weight off of him. Connor freezes for a moment, worried that perhaps Hank is a light sleeper or that he misjudged how deep that sleep even was. He doesn’t stir, however. Simply mumbles something incomprehensible and snores a little, soft and sweet.

When Connor escapes the clutches of Hank and the mattress, Hank simply pulls himself up on the bed and holds onto his pillow as an easy replacement for Connor’s chest. Connor tries not to feel a tinge of jealousy at that.

He folds the blanket over Hank. It’s not how Hank would usually use it, Connor is sure, but pulling the proper half of the comforter from underneath Hank’s body seems unlikely. Comfort over custom.

A part of him wishes to do more. Hank will likely wake dehydrated, head aching and mouth dry, but Connor doesn’t want to risk searching out a glass of water or something for the headache. While he would like to meet Kurgan, he knows that a dog finding a stranger wandering the halls is a sure way to wake the household.

He climbs out the window instead of sneaking down the steps. A lower likelihood of being discovered. 8% versus 57% is a steep disparity. There isn’t anything to grasp hold of beneath the window sill, really, besides shallow divots where the brick is mortared. Chance of discovery, 13%. Still better than the front door. Second story or no, Connor manages it better than an untrained human might after a few preconstructed scenarios. It’s a useful tool to map a way back into Hank’s window as well, although he’d like to think he’d be allowed to use the front door next time.

He sets the alarm remotely and ignores the way that the neighborhood cat watches him with judgmental, yellow eyes as he rounds the house. The air still smells of ozone.

Truth be told, Hank and Connor do not live terribly far from one another. Should he visit Hank’s again (should Hank invite him again while sober) he could easily walk. It would be a touch far for a human to risk without some form of security, but Connor is not human.

As he enters Amanda’s neighborhood, the agitation begins to itch under his skin. He can slow or speed his perception of time, a benefit of his brain being a literal computer, but he has never used the function before. In moments like this, however, he wants to. The only thing that stops him is not knowing which he would even prefer: fast forward or bullet time. He thinks it might be similar to human nervousness. Caught in between the world moving too quickly and crawling at an unbearable pace.

The house comes into view around the corner, the tower—his bedroom—always the first thing that he perceives. This time, though, he notices the bay window in front glowing bright in the darkness like an open maw. Connor sits still as a board in the heated seat of Amanda’s car as it parks in the driveway. The rain has stopped and the water is already drying in patches across the cement.

He chews on the inside of his lip. He didn’t used to do that. Amanda hates it. Says its bad for the elastomer and synthetic skin. Lowers its  _value_.

No use in prolonging the inevitable, is there?

Connor doesn’t bother with the back door this time, instead marching slowly up the steps of the front porch and pushing through the sleek black of the entry without even needing to unlock it. An even more sure sign that Amanda is waiting.

The tips of his fingers feel like static on a type of television screen that doesn’t even exist outside of yard sales and pawn shops anymore. As if they are overloaded with too much electrical input.

Amanda sits at the dining room table, in full view of Connor’s path. Her braids are up but more relaxed than a style she might wear during day, and she’s still in her pajamas. Nothing so sloppy as a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. Two pieces of silk in a pale grey that reflects its ripples in the overhead light. Her legs are crossed primly, eyes focused on a spot in the table’s wood that she circles with the tip of her finger.

Connor stops at the line between the living and dining area. His toes just brush the border like there’s a boundary there that he isn’t allowed to pass.

He opens his mouth but only slightly, closing it a moment later when Amanda’s dark gaze rises to meet his own. Her expression gives nothing away.

She watches him like that for a moment, eyes sharp and cold as the flick across his countenance. She seems to pick him apart. Unhook his circuitry. Take out the plugs that feed into his processor. Push aside the tubing to analyze the steady thumping of his thirium pump. All so meticulous and academic.

Connor is not a person. Amanda would not look at a person in this way, even one that she needed to scrutinize. He knows it. She knows that he knows it. There is calculation even in this.

Slowly, Amanda stands to her feet. She only pauses for a moment before brushing past him. Silent. She switches off the light on her way out.

Connor stays fastened to that spot as her footsteps leave him, pacing taking her back up the stairs and down the hallway. He hears the water to the shower turn on above him before he can do anything at all. It’s dark in the house. It’s dark outside. The only light that shines is the street lamps peeking through the gaps in the curtains. Bleeding through the fabric.

He hadn’t been scolded. He hadn’t gotten into trouble. He wasn’t banned from school or even asked where he’d been.

None of that means that he wasn’t punished. Or that he won’t be.

It certainly doesn’t feel like a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](http://roboxcop.tumblr.com) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](http://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)!


	7. Part I, September 23rd-26th 2028 (Hank)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo this took forever again, huh? In our defense there was a) totally the HCBB2018 and b) this one is...a monster. Seriously, this is possibly the longest chapter. We would have split it, but we wanted it in Hank's POV. So here it is! Enjoy, lol. 
> 
> Adding this just in case:  
> • TW for Hank's mild self-hatred  
> • TW for biphobic language and the near use of a homophobic slur (While we do like to believe that in ten years some of these oppressive behaviors will be significantly improved, we can't really see them being entirely eliminated quite yet. There will be hints of that in a couple places throughout. I forget to add this warning when first posting this chapter so I hope that didn't cause any distress.)  
> • CW for _Blade Runner: The Director's/Final Cut_ spoilers? I guess? I mean it's been out for 27(/37 for the Theatrical Version) years but...just in case.
> 
> Also, something exciting! Two people drew some art for this story, and they are both so amazing!
> 
> Check out **doomcheese's** ([twitter](https://twitter.com/cheesecake_doom) / [tumblr](https://doomcheese.tumblr.com/)) bb!Hank over [**here**](https://doomcheese.tumblr.com/post/182418352991/everyones-got-that-one-fic-in-a-fandom-that)!  
>  And [**hookedonhank's**](https://hookedonhank.tumblr.com/) Connor and Hank with Connor [**here**](https://hookedonhank.tumblr.com/post/182429267235/i-couldnt-not-make-some-sketches-based-on)!
> 
> Thank you guys so fucking much and hope you enjoy this chapter!

**September 23rd, 2018**

It feels like deja fucking vu, really. The pounding headache. The revolting taste in his mouth. Regret mixed with a half-hearted vow to never drink like that again. It’s all so familiar that Hank doesn’t have the fucking energy for any of it—not today—and drops back to sleep.

He rests fitfully, however, drifting in and out of consciousness through the ticking hours before giving up altogether. Upon reaching for his phone for a bit of mindless browsing, Hank notices the cord attached to its port. Someone had the sensibility to plug his cell to charge, and Hank knows for a fact that it wasn’t him. He groans in frustration as the memories of last night are suddenly too vivid to hold back. They flood to the forefront of his mind as he wanders mindlessly out of the fog of sleep. He’s certain that no amount of tequila could ever make him forget how it felt to have Connor’s legs entwined with his own.

The warm feeling in his belly takes a cold turn when he remembers the utter horseshit coming out of his mouth. Typical of him to tarnish something nice with his bullshit.

Hank rolls over in annoyance but knows that he’s too awake to be able to sleep now. And too hungry. He tries to ignore it as best he can but soon faces the inevitable sunlight. It stings his eyes as he walks down the stairs despite it being mercifully and miserably dim.

The living room and kitchen are empty. Now that Hank thinks about it, the whole house is quiet. It’s enough for him to check the garage in his curiosity. The cars are gone; everyone’s out. Whatever. He grabs anything he can keep in his room and returns to the darkness of his bed.

.

 **Hank** **_  
_ ** _Hey. I know I was a nightmare last night but thx for the solid_

 **Connor** **_  
_ ** _I’ve had worse nightmares._

 **Connor** **_  
_ ** _But I’m happy to help. Did your parents suspect anything?_

 **Hank** _  
__Not a damn thing_

 **Connor** **_  
_ ** _Then the mission was successful. I’m glad. How’s the hangover?_

 **Hank** **_  
_ ** _Brutal. I’m gonna pass out again...just wanted to say thx for coming when I called_

 **Connor** .  
_Any time, Hank._

Hank drops his phone and gives himself a moment to bury his face under his pillow. Connor’s not making this any fucking easier.

**.**

**September 25th, 2028**

By the time the week starts again, Hank’s hangover has all but disappeared. He even managed to feel human enough to get his bike back from Gary’s. Hank pulls it up to his regular parking space in front of the school and for a moment everything feels like it’s back to normal. At least until he sees Connor waiting in the usual spot, clutching at his bag before spotting Hank and waving him down.

 _Alright, Hank,_ he thinks. _Keep it casual._

“Hey, buckaroo. Fancy meeting you in this neck of the woods.”

 _Not_ that _casual,_ he groans. ‘Buckeroo’? ‘Neck of the woods’? Jesus Christ. Connor cocks an eyebrow, but he still smiles the same as he always does. Like he hasn’t seen Hank in a lifetime. Like he wasn’t there when...

Stop. He can’t keep thinking about this. He’s supposed to forget.

“Fully recovered, I see?” Connor queries with curious but amused lilt.

“I always bounce back,” Hank attempts with chill flair, following Connor through the clusters of students catching up on weekend events. Among them Hank can see North chatting with a couple of other girls before she spots Connor.

“Connor!” He waves back when he sees her. “How was your weekend?”

“Uneventful,” Connor says so calmly Hank almost believes it himself. “After I got rid of the body, of course.”

“Of course.” She adds, “Hey, Anderson. Heard you had fun.”

Hank’s blood goes cold, but he’ll be damned if he shows the shitspewing fear running through his veins.

“Was yours that boring? That you had to keep tabs on mine?”

“Liz is my friend, ass,” she snipes back, crossing her arms defensively. Hank tries his best to figure out who the fuck Liz even is. Shit that isn’t—fuck. No, her name was Robin...right? _Right?_ Fuck, he’s going to feel like an ass if he misremembered that, even if he does regret it.  

“Oh.” Then it hits him. Gary’s ex. North’s expression is knowing. Too much like Sally’s when she’s got something to dangle over his head. “Small world, eh?”

Hank shrugs as he walks away. Only because running would be too suspicious.

“Yeah, take off!” North calls after him teasingly. “Heard you’re great at that.”

Hank winces. Even though there’s no meanness in her voice (or...no more than there usually is when it comes to North), it stings knowing the exact breadth of information she has about that evening. Fuck, he’d rather just forget it altogether. It would’ve been better if he’d woken up with a black void eating up the entire night rather than creeping all fuzzy in between moments.

Hank walks on and flips North off over his shoulder. He doesn’t even mind that it only serves to get a laugh out of her.

“Be nice,” Connor tells him, his reproach threaded with obvious humor. Hank grunts a response. He watches Connor from the corner of his eye, trying to dissect his posture through the foggy, half-formed image that it grants him.

Connor knows about the kiss, but he doesn’t know that it’s what North is referring to with her comment. Hank’s rambling, drunken apology hadn’t included that much.

Guilt bubbles up underneath his breastbone even though it doesn’t belong there. Connor and he aren’t dating. If they were, none of this would have happened. Hank isn’t a fucking cheater. He may be a shithead, but that’s one of the few things that he has to his name. He’s good at sex, he’s never lost a game of Mario Party in his life, and he’s loyal.

Connor isn’t his boyfriend, though, and Hank shouldn’t feel like he betrayed him in some way. They’re friends. _Just_ friends. Not that Hank’s going to lie to himself and say that there isn’t a part of him that wants them to be...more. Connor is witty and kind and probably a genius and so, _so_ fucking pretty. Who wouldn’t want to date him?

He deserves way better than Hank fucking Anderson.

So no. Hank shouldn’t feel guilt pressing hard against the back of his ribs and clawing at his throat. He didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, he did Connor a favor. Maybe shattered the illusion a little bit. It was bound to happen eventually, after all.

Still, the feeling remains. Hank wets his lips, opens his mouth and closes it, clenches his jaw so that words can form in the cage of his teeth.

It takes a few tries for him to fill the silence between them, but what ends up coming out is nowhere near anything that he conjured in his thoughts.

“Hey, uh,” he starts as his turns the dial of his locker’s padlock, “thanks again for...yaknow...helping me out this weekend. I don’t remember a lot but. Yeah. Thanks.”

His words stumble out. Paying attention to his combo and what he's saying at the same leaves him unable to do either without fucking up.

Connor’s brow twitches into a furrow for a moment, looking almost uncertain. “What _do_ you remember?”

“Not much,” Hank lies. It’s easier when he isn’t looking at Connor, focusing instead on the worn spines of his school books as he switches the ones he used over the weekend (‘used’ being a massive overstatement) for those that he needs in the next couple of periods. “I remember puking my guts out.”

_I remember you holding my hair, and you pressing something cool to my neck, and your fingers just beneath the collar of my shirt._

_I remember your hands being soft as I traced the lines in your palm and laying my head against your chest and the way our legs slotted together so nicely._

_I remember wanting so much just to kiss you and touch you_ everywhere _and see if you look even half as pretty when you come._

_I remember confessing shit that I haven’t said to anyone who wasn’t family or a therapist and feeling all cracked open and honest._

_I remember everything. It’s a little embarrassing, really, how much I remember._

“And your mom’s car, I think? Shit, I didn’t throw up in there, right?”

Connor is watching him with that unnerving glint in his eye. Like he can see right through Hank and all his dumbass pretenses. Hank wouldn’t be surprised, honestly. The kid is, as he’s mentioned before, so goddamn smart. It’s almost scary sometimes. Hank isn’t really sure how Connor’s not ahead a grade or two. Or ten.

Instead of calling him out, though, Connor says, “No. We made it to your house before the nausea even seemed to hit.”

“Thank god,” Hank replies, trying to sound like someone who doesn’t recall bolting up the steps as Connor shut the door gently behind them. He hates how good he is at this. How good he is at pretending like he can’t see the fade in Connor’s eyes. “Think she already hates me.”

 _‘She doesn’t like anyone,’_ Connor had told him as the car drove them through the streets of Detroit. Something to that effect, at least. Hank had wondered if that statement included Connor. Didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to bring up at the time.

Connor doesn’t reply that way this time. He sighs, seeming vaguely irritated, and hitches his bag higher onto his shoulder. Not once does he meet Hank’s gaze.

Good. Let him be done with Hank’s shit, if only for a while.

Connor ends up heading to class a little before he usually would have. He leaves Hank with a lonely feeling in his chest, hollow as the voices of other students chattering aimlessly with their friends envelop him. He tries to drown out the feeling. He should probably get used to it, just in case things go poorly. Or when they eventually do, knowing him.

Hank settles into his chair a little before the warning bell rings. He isn’t the first one in the class, not by a long shot, but there’s something relaxing about finding himself where he’s supposed to be. A moment to himself. No North or Connor. Pedro and Gary aren’t in this period either, thank god. He’s trying not to even think about them, yet. That’s a problem for future Hank.

Someone plops down into the seat next to him, and when Hank glances toward them out of habit, Simon Phillips is looking at him with a turn to the corner of his lips. Hank has a feeling he’s going to be getting a lot of those.

“Rough weekend?” he asks, knowingly. Yeah. Hank can feel that hangover coming on again.

.

That morning sets the tone for the rest of the day. While he isn’t paranoid about everyone within the area giving him the side-eye, Hank is on edge about Connor, and he hates it. He hates having to dance around someone who, until this moment, was the closest thing to peace he’s ever felt. Of course he had to go and fuck it up. Somehow, he always ends up sabotaging himself.

Hank spends most of Criminal Investigation scratching his pen along his notebook and picturing the different ways Connor might drop him like the hot, toxic potato he is. From the corner of his eye he can see Connor stealing glances, perhaps hoping for Hank to make eye contact. To give him _anything._ Hank holds back.

“You seem preoccupied,” Connor breaks the silence once class is over. Hank knows his friend is concerned, and yet he can’t help but notice the sharp curiosity in Connor’s tone.

“Oh,” Hank scoffs, “knowing me I’m probably still drunk.” He chuckles but all he gets in return is a skeptical tilt to Connor’s head. Shit ain’t flying. “What can I say? I haven’t been that drunk in a long time.”

“Drunk enough to forget everything, you mean?” Connor doesn’t come off accusatory, but the forwardness leaves Hank a bit lost for words. Connor isn’t subtle. Then again he’s never tried to be as far as Hank can tell.

“I was young and stupid back then,” Hank jokes, trying to brush the conversation off as he finishes packing his backpack

“And you’ve grown out of it, have you?”

“Fuck no, I’ll be fucking stupid no matter how old I get.”

Hank is on his feet and halfway across the room by the time he notices Connor trailing quietly behind him, lost in thought it seems. It takes a moment for him to catch up, and he doesn’t say much during their short route together.

“See you at lunch?” Hank’s voice comes out meeker than he intended. He feels pathetic.

“Yes,” Connor agrees. “See you at lunch, Hank.”

Connor veers down his own path while Hank watches him. The knot in his stomach grows a little bit tighter.

.

The feeling doesn’t go away come lunch time. He half expects not to find Connor waiting for him at all, but seeing him in their usual meeting spot by the stairs doesn’t ease the building tension. Waiting in line for the cafeteria food is excruciating with the elephant between them. When Hank sees Pedro, he reaches for a distraction.

“Hey, Pe—” Hank starts, cut off as Pedro walks right past him with nothing but a dirty glance in exchange. Oh, and a middle finger. Just to drive the point home.  

“I’ve never seen Pedro look so angry,” Connor muses aloud. “Does this have something to do with the kiss?”

“Yeah...” Hank winces.

“That you forgot?”

Boy, today just keeps getting better and better...

“Leave me the fuck alone, Hank,” Pedro grumbles before Hank even has the chance to put his tray on the table.

“I want to apologize.” He sits down frantically with Connor close behind. He’s said very little and continues the—likely incredibly wise—tactic while Hank attempts not to drop the juggling chainsaws.

“For stealing Robin?” Pedro’s so mad that he can’t even look Hank in the eye. He focuses all his anger on his chicken, instead.

“Stea—he’s not a fucking pack of smokes, dude.”  

“You sure were sucking her face like one!” Pedro spits back, this time glaring daggers at Hank.

“She wasn’t even that into you! I don’t know how much more fuckin’ obvious she could have been!”

Pedro goes markedly still, his jaw twitching under the skin.

“You’re shit at apologies,” he grumbles and returns to glaring at his lunch. Hank can tell by the way that Pedro’s shoulders are shaking that all he’s done is made this shit worse. He takes a deep breath. Try again, asshole.

“It was a drunken, heat of the moment thing. One minute, I was going out for a smoke next thing we’re kissing.” Pedro still doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m sorry, okay? It was a shitty weekend, and I was a mess.”

“Fuck you, and your bullshit collateral damage.” Pedro’s voice breaks, and he’s so close to tears that it just makes Hank feel a whole new level of awful. Would have been better if he’d ripped him a new asshole.

Connor is expressionless and distant. As if he’s studying a scene that Hank keeps fucking up. He feels trapped between two consequences: Connor across from him and Pedro to his right.

Robin isn’t a pack of smokes, like he said. She’s a person who can make her own decisions. So is Hank, though. Robin can kiss anyone she wants, but it didn’t have to be Hank. He should’ve said no. He knew it would hurt Pedro. Pedro is a nice guy with shitty habits and shittier taste in friends. He didn’t deserve that.

“Pedro...” Hank tries again, softer this time, but Pedro shrinks away from him. His face sets as he tries to tamp down the unintentional wave of emotion in favor of something more stony and detached.

 _There you go fucking up again,_ Hank tells himself.

“Hank,” Connor says, finally, from across the table. He sounds imploring and...gentler than Hank had expected of him. “Maybe he needs some time.” He’s still got his bagged lunch in his hand, body ready to leave the seat.

Hank watches as Pedro continues eating in icy silence, body rigid. Gary looks on impassively from across the table. “Yeah...yeah, sure.”

There’s something profoundly shameful about standing up from a spot after just having sat down. Hank doubts that many people notice (or care for that matter), but that irrational part of his brain tells him that every eye in the cafeteria is honed in on his defeated, lumbering form. The back of his neck feels hot with embarrassment.

Fuck, where are they even going to sit, he thinks as his eyes give the hall a cursory glance. As always, the cafeteria is packed except for the places that are elbow to elbow with groups that have separated themselves from others by the barest of distance.

At least Connor seems to be perfectly fine sticking with him, though. Against all odds.

At least it couldn’t get any worse.

From behind him, Gary’s voice jeers, none too quietly, “Guess we know why they call bi’s greedy, huh?”

Hank turns on his heel, blood already roaring in his ears as his temper flares up in a snap. From the corner of his eye, there’s a blur of motion that happens before his movement has halted enough for his vision to focus, and Gary is suddenly coughing violently around nothing.

Hank’s flash fire anger burns out as quickly as it sprung to life in favor of confusion. Gary holds his throat in pain as his choking sputters and calms to a stop. Connor stands close by, watching impassively, but there’s something hostile in the set of his features. He straightens the cuff of his sleeve needlessly.

“You little _bitch!_ ” Gary shouts at Connor as he leaps to his feet. His voice is hoarse, and his backpack topples onto its side near his feet, plastic silverware clattering to the floor as well. Red faced, he’s in Connor’s face in an instant. His whole body crackles with an aggressive energy that Hank would skitter away from as a child and run toward as a reckless teen. Connor stands stock still in the face of it. Electricity against immovable rock.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Josh’s voice suddenly cuts between the tension. Hank doesn’t even know how he got here so fast. Kid must have a radar for tension. “Let’s just calm down, alright?” He puts himself between the pair, one hand toward both of them in precaution.

“He punched me in the _fucking_ throat!” Gary accuses, voice booming as he lunges a bit in order to point angrily around Josh’s front. There’s no real intent behind the movement, but it’s enough that Josh’s hand has to press against his chest to keep him back.

Fuck. The comment. The blur of someone springing forward. The sudden choking fit.

Hank isn’t stupid. He can put the pieces together. He’s just having trouble lining them up with _Connor._ Kind, quiet Connor who curses, sure, but barely.

Connor hasn't even even broken a sweat, not a hair out of place. It was a quick punch, too. Perfectly aimed.

From _Connor._

“Connor?” Josh questions, though it’s laced with the same dubiety that’s swirling around in Hank’s head. Connor’s eyes never leave Gary, chin tilting in defiance.

Josh’s eyes turn to Hank, now. As if he has the answers.

“I dunno what happened,” he answers, honestly, shrugging his shoulders. He’d raise his hands in mock surrender if they weren’t still holding his plastic, cafeteria tray between them.

Josh moves his gaze to Pedro next.

Pedro shifts uneasily in his seat. He looks up at Gary and then Hank. Rolls his eyes in annoyance and takes that defensive stance that Hank’s only seen him wear around a couple of cops awhile back. “I didn’t see shit, man.”

Hank lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Gary scoffs but doesn’t seem all that betrayed. Just pissed. He doesn’t like being taken by surprise, much less gaining unwanted attention.

“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” Josh says with placating tones.  

“Sure. Whatever. Just keep that fucking fa—” Gary cuts himself off as Josh’s eyes go sharp. His gaze slides from Josh to Hank to the rest of the cafeteria. People might not have been watching before, but they certainly are now. Even those that are pretending not to look have the posture of someone listening with one ear. The teachers on monitoring duty are scrutinizing them as well, attention trained on the altercation and looking poised to spring in at any moment. Gary puts the hateful word that was ready to leap from his tongue away in light of his audience and retreads his sentence. “Keep that fucking freak away from me.”

Josh keeps his hand up as Gary settles back down into his seat with a huff, his other eventually gripping Connor’s shoulder to turn him around toward the aisle. He gives Connor a friendly pat on the back as they find themselves at Markus’s table.

The situation now diffused and the show officially over, the chatter of the lunch room has returned to a steady roar. Hank moves behind Connor and Josh, the student body’s attention already shifting to other things. Or at least to talking about the incident instead of gawking.

Hank doesn’t know why he assumed that he’d be welcomed alongside Connor, but the group shifts to accommodate him all the same.  

“Holy shit, Connor,” North stage whispers from a few people down the table, glee evident in her features. Hank can’t blame her. As the sudden rush of endorphins leaves him, he feels a matching sense of delight that dumps like a pail of water over his earlier sour mood and sends it fizzling out.

“What did he say to you?” Simon asks from Connor’s elbow. He sounds concerned. Comforting. So sure that Connor wouldn’t have attacked unprovoked.

Connor’s resolute posture has begun to wane as he settles down into the safety that friends provide, but there’s still a stubborn tilt to his chin that Hank feels inordinately fond of all of the sudden. “He called people of a bisexual leaning ‘greedy’. It wasn’t the first time I heard him talking like that.”

“Sounds like he had it coming,” Daniel (it’s easier to tell the twins apart when they’re talking, Hank notices) says while loading a cracker up with flaked tuna fish.

Josh sighs as he settles back into his seat between North and Daniel. “Can we not encourage reactionary violence? Just once?”

North rolls her eyes. Markus chuckles. Daniel gives some witty retort. Simon leans back into Markus’s chest. A routine exchange. A part of their daily life that, however briefly, Hank enjoys being a part of.

For a moment, they’re all caught up enough in each other that Hank doesn’t even have the time to feel out of place. He bumps Connor’s shoulder with his own, leaning into him.

“Thanks,” he tells him. Quietly and when he knows that no one is listening.

Connor looks at him then and the strain that’s been between them all day feels eaten up by the softness in his gaze. “He did have it coming.”

“Yeah.” Hank smiles. “Guess so.”

“And Pedro will come around,” Connor continues, lightly. He dares a smirk through a quick nod in Gary’s direction. “There’s only so long a person can be alone with Gary.”

Hank laughs outright at that. “Yeah, you gotta point there, Con.”

By the time lunch is over, Connor’s furrowed brow has relaxed, and he’s smiling at Hank again. Sure, that elephant still lingers between them, but it’s amazing what a good punch to the throat can do to ease the tension.

The relief doesn’t fully hit until Psychology when Hank spots Connor waving at him next to an empty seat. The class is spent with them unable to steal glances between them without breaking into a smile. Something inside Hank feels alarmingly warm and loose. Maybe, even after everything, he didn’t actually fuck it up with Connor.

Seems like Gary is good for something after all.

“So uh...” Hank fidgets with his backpack strap while they wait for Connor’s mother to arrive. It’s not everyday someone punches your oldest friend to defend your honor. It’s not everyday someone drags your drunk ass home in the middle of the night, either. Hank’s been wanting to find a way to express his thanks since Psych. Now that he has the chance to do so, however, he’s finding it damn near impossible to get the words out. “I was wondering...if you’re not, like...busy or anything, if you wanted to uh—if you wanted to...come see my room?”

“What?” Connor tilts his head in curiosity. It doesn’t help Hank focus.

“I mean—do you want to come hang out at my place?” Hank stumbles to correct. “To watch shit or play games or—I dunno, chill?” It’s only after he finishes does he realize he’s been shuffling on his feet back and forth. He stops himself instantly, but it doesn’t wane the blossoming embarrassment.

“I’d like that,” Connor replies, voice lilted with his smile. “When?”

“Oh!” Hank grins. He didn’t think he’d get this far. “Uh...tomorrow? Is that too soon?”

“No, it sounds perfect.”

“Cool. Cool, cool.” He catches Connor’s eyes watching something behind him. A familiar black vehicle. As ominous as it is, Hank is thankful for an excuse to stop saying ‘cool’ like an idiot. “Okay, cool,” Hank repeats one final time. Because of course he does. “Well, then I’ll...see you tomorrow?”

“Same time, same place.” Connor beams, and Hank’s spirits are lifted just that little bit more as Connor climbs into the car.

Hank spends his ride home with the reality of the situation he’s put himself in crashing over him in waves. He’ll need to talk to his parents, and his room is a goddamn mess. It is...super fucking important that it be in a better state this time. He winces at what Connor must have seen when he dragged his sorry ass home. Then again, the state of that whole night is worth a wince. He walks into the kitchen and finds his mother rummaging through the fridge. They haven’t talked much since the weekend. There’s still a cloud of sadness behind her eyes, but Hank can tell that it has at least somewhat dissipated.

“Good day at school?” she asks. There’s a lingering apprehension in her voice, but she still can’t resist giving her son a welcoming smile.

“Something like that.” Liv takes this as an adequate answer and goes back to her rummaging. Hank heaves a deep breath and continues, “So can a friend come over after school tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she answers distractedly. “Make sure to tell your dad, because he’s coo—” Her head pokes back out into view when realization dawns on her. “Wait, a friend? Here?”

“Please don’t make it a Thing, Mom,” Hank sighs.

“I’m not! I promise! What friend?” She’s closes the fridge door now, her attention—as Hank feared—entirely on him.

“Connor.”

“Oh. The new kid?” Liv perks up even more.

“What’s going on?” Sally asks as she saunters in the kitchen, phone in hand, and reaches for an apple. She takes a lazy bite.

“Connor’s coming over for dinner tomorrow,” Liv fills her in.

“Who?” she wonders around a sweet, crunchy mouthful.

“Hank’s new friend.”

“Oh my god, he actually stuck around long enough to get an invite?”

“I’m glad you guys are being so chill about this,” Hank grumbles. He pouts over to the pantry, exasperated.

“What? None of us have social lives!” Sally teases.

“Congratulations on reaching the high point of your day,” Hank quips back. Pop-tarts in hand, Hank makes his way to the stairs. “I gotta go clean up my rat’s nest.”

“Hank’s cleaning his room?” Wade finally speaks up, poking his head out from the other side of the couch. “What’s the occasion?”

“Were you just waiting for your cue or something?” Hank calls out.   

“No, I was napping. I woke up and _then_ waited for my cue.” Wade looks very proud of himself, but Hank’s already groaning halfway up the stairs. “And I’ll make sure to make extra carbonara!” he yells moments before Hank shuts his bedroom door.  

Utterly fucking exhausting. All of them. As draining as they are, though, there’s some part of him that enjoys the normality of it all.

He leans against the door for a couple more moments. He glances down at the handle, grip on it reminding Hank of what’s hanging there. The fabric is smooth beneath his fingers, and in one swift moment he reaches for Connor’s tie. Hank bundles it up in his hand and shoves it deep into the back of his nightstand drawer. He doesn’t dwell too much on why he wants to hide it from Connor, instead focusing on the pile of clean laundry piled at the corner of his bed.

Gotta start somewhere.

Any item that can be wrinkled might as well be a crumpled sheet of paper since the clothes have been sitting in the basket for so long. Most mornings, he just gives a shirt a toss into the dryer if he wants to wear it. Jeans don’t usually need it, and underwear are rarely going to be seen. If they are, the heat of his body will have smoothed out the creases by then anyway.

There’s a pair of pale blue boxer briefs on top of the pile with unicorns that have flowing, colorful manes printed on them, and he flushes at the thought of Connor having seen them.

Not that it matters. Totally doesn’t.

He tosses the whole lot into the dryer without separating out the stuff that needs it from what doesn’t. It’s easier this way.

“Mom?” he calls from halfway down the steps. From here he can see her on the sofa with his dad, feet up in his lap as he massages her arches. Always a sign of a long day at work.

“Hm?” She looks up from the show they’re watching. Something milder than her and Sally’s horror favorites.

“Uh, are there—there aren’t any sheets in the closet.”

“Then there probably aren’t any clean ones. The ones down here are all for a king-size.”

“Are you _actually_ cleaning your room?” Wade asks, somehow still disbelieving despite being given this information less that ten minutes ago.

“I clean my room all the time,” Hank protests against the the constant skepticism in his father’s voice, even if he honestly can’t remember the last time that he actually did so. He’s not a pig. He keeps it...tidy. Enough. He knows exactly where everything is and doesn’t hold onto dirty dishes.

“Course, kiddo,” Livia says. “You need me to show you where the vacuum is?”

Hank rolls his eyes at the obvious dig and trudges his way up back up the steps to strip his bed. He knows full well where the cleaning appliances are. He’s starting to regret making such a spur of the moment decision. Impulsive ass. Should’ve thought ahead. Planned a day when his parents had to work a little later.

Shit out of luck now, though.

He wads up the sheets and tosses them in the washer. Throws out an old pizza box from one of the days that both Wade and Liv had to work double shifts. Puts the few blu-rays he owns in line with the others on his media shelf. Shoves some random items that he doesn’t know what to do with under the bed and tries his best to get his desk in order.

He takes the ‘subtle’ hint from his mother to run the vacuum in his room and does not turn around when his sister stands all smug in his periphery. She eventually gives up, stalking out in a huff.

In the end, it feels cleaner than it has in a long while but not _too_ clean. Just tidied. A bit more ‘organized’ to the ‘organized chaos’. He doesn’t let himself think about the why of it. Hank just wants it clean when he has his friend over is all. Cleaner than it was the last time, that is. Just so Connor can see that he isn’t always such a mess.

Yeah. That’s all. Just that.

.

**September 26th, 2028**

Hank sits with Markus and his little crew at lunch on Tuesday, and it’s...weird. Not bad weird. Just...different.

Pedro still isn’t talking to him or responding to his texts. Hank hasn’t even tried to reach out to Gary. Honestly, the slur that Hank knows full well was on Gary’s tongue has soured him in a way that Hank doesn’t know if he can recover from. Gary always rode the line of homophobia, but he never crossed it.

High school’s the sort of place that can breed toxic friendships or so Hank has heard. He put up with Gary’s shit because there weren’t many other places to turn to when Hank was letting off his own poison and because Gary was a good time when he wasn’t being an asshole.

And with his dad dying a few years before Cole passed, he...got it. In a way that a lot of people didn’t. For a while, it even felt good for it to be the two of them against the world.

There’s only so much that Hank will take, though. He might have even overlooked the hateful word aimed at himself but not at Connor.

Connor, who leans into his space as Hank picks at some food that Connor has plucked out of his own lunch and put on Hank’s tray. How does his mom not know what her kid likes in his lunch anyhow? Not that Connor eats much anyway, mind.

“Do you think Kurgan will like me?” Connor questions, low so that their conversation is separate from the others.

“Give ‘im a treat, and he’ll act like you’ve known him for years.”

“We should watch _Blade Runner_ , by the way,” he adds, seeming pleased with this. “Since you were so appalled that I hadn’t seen it.”

Hank tries not to smile too widely. “There are lots of movies that I’m appalled you haven’t seen.”

“Did you know that he’s never seen _Into the Spider-Verse_?” Simon chimes in helpfully.

“Never?!” Markus exclaims as Hank groans.

“You’re killing me, Con.”

It doesn’t end up being all that bad really. They’re good people. Even if North tells him to fuck off.

“It’s how you know that she’s warming up to you,” Josh explains.

Fifth period with Pedro and Gary is as fucking awkward as it was the day before. Hank doesn’t know anyone else in the class, but he doesn’t have to. He sits away from the two of them and keeps to himself. Puts his nose to the book until the bell rings so he can jolt out of his seat and move onto the next one, forty-five minutes closer to the end of the day.

By the time Psych gets out, it feels like a fucking age. Even Connor’s bright presence couldn’t lessen the sluggish pull of time until it was taunt between the minutes.

“Well that fucking dragged,” Hank drawls. He sighs amongst the sea of students that pour out of the classroom. Everyone is always restless during last period. Especially Hank. Especially today.

Not that it has anything to do with what comes next. Not one bit.

“Psychology class, at times, feels like a test to discredit everything about physics as we know it,” Connor adds.

“Is it ‘cause the sound of Ms. Freeman’s voice somehow _actually_ feels heavier the more she drones on?”

“I was going to joke about how time slows because of it, but I prefer yours.”

They make their way outside and down into the parking lot, neither of them mentioning the break in pattern. No ominous black cars today. Hank tries to keep it casual enough to hide his nerves.

Not that he should be nervous, after all.

He flips the seat of his motorcycle to reveal a spare helmet and spins towards Connor with a cheeky grin.

“Here. Safety first.” Hank passes Connor the protective gear. It’s an obnoxiously bright, neon blue; the quizzical look on Connor’s face is adorable.

“What an...energetic color,” Connor comments, diplomatic as always. He inspects the thing, turning it this way and that in his clever hands, as if to confirm that the hue covers the whole piece. It does.

“Yeah, it’s Sally’s technically. I think she bought that shade on purpose.” Hank rolls his eyes, because he _knows_ that she did.

“I’m excited to meet her. She sounds a lot like you.”

Hank cocks his eyebrows as Connor dons the helmet and says, “That’s bold words coming from someone who looks like a radioactive blueberry on a toothpick.”

Hank slips his own helmet on over his head and slides the face shield down with a snap.

“It’ll keep you visible during the busy traffic.” Connor almost looks proud of this.

Hank throws a leg over his bike and gestures to Connor to do the same. “Well, hop on. I know there’s a perpetual puppy that’s ready for some attention. Oh, and Kurgan too.”

Connor returns the cocked eyebrow from earlier but smiles all the same as he climbs up into place. Hank hears Connor’s face shield click shut behind him.

Just as they’re getting ready to drive off—Hank’s boot knocking the kickstand out of place—he feels Connor’s arms slide around him, palms pressing against Hank’s lower ribcage. Hank has to command himself to keep breathing before Connor notices.

He now has two options: either he tells Connor about the passenger handlebars or...he doesn’t. The latter would spare them both the embarrassment, but he also remembers how it felt to be pressed against Connor. He...liked it. With Connor against him once again, he realizes that he still does. Selfishly, he stays quiet as he revs the engine.

.

“If my family’s out there, don’t make eye contact,” Hank instructs when they get to the Anderson home.

“You make them sound like bears, Hank.” Connor hands his helmet back, disbelieving.

“I’m serious! They’re all super curious, borderline nosy. I’m telling you: beeline to the stairs. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Hank exits the garage to an empty dining room. So far, so good. At least until he reaches the living room. There, he finds both parents with their television show already paused, looking at him expectantly. He waves at them silently, hoping they take the hint, and keeps walking.

“Hello!” Hank hears his mother greet behind him. Oh boy... “You must be Connor.”

“Hello,” Connor replies. “That must be me. And you must be Mrs. Anderson.”

Ever polite, that one. Hank groans.

“Call me Liv. Or Livia works, as well.” Liv’s welcoming demeanor shines through a warm smile. She points toward her husband. “And this is Wade.”

“I hear you’ll be joining us for dinner,” Wade says brightly, Liv’s eagerness infecting him as he gives Connor one of his Firm, Dad Handshakes.

“Yes,” Connor confirms. “I’ve heard good things about your carbonara.” This clearly makes Wade preen, and it’s enough for Hank to step in.

“Don’t indulge him too much. Hey, where’s Kurgan,” he asks, when he notices Connor’s eyes darting around the floor.

“Oh, Sally’s walking him. They’ll be back soon.” Liv’s attention goes back to Connor. “Are you enjoying your new school?”

Before Connor has the chance to answer, Hank pulls him toward the stairs.

“Alright, alright. Save all questions for dinner time,” Hank grumbles. Behind him, he thinks he hears his mother’s gleeful voice instructing him to ‘have fun’ but he tries to block it out along with a rising blush.

They rush up the steps, but it’s only when they reach his room that Hank lets out a sigh. “Sorry about that. They have no life whatsoever.”

“I think it’s sweet how much they care,” Connor tells him so honestly that Hank can’t even drum up a sarcastic retort.

“Yeah, I know...” he concedes, quickly deflecting as he switches on the light. “Anyway, welcome back. I promise my room doesn’t always look post apocalyptic.”

“I like your room. It’s reflects your personality so well.”

“What? A mess of wrinkled clothes and nerdy shit?” Hank asks with a self deprecating laugh, but before Connor can object (because Connor always does when Hank drags himself; it’s fucking sweet, really), Hank hears noises downstairs. He raises his finger for Connor to hold the thought for a moment. He hears claws on tile and the jangling of dog tags and calls out, “Kurgan!”

The distant sound of galloping approaches at an incredible speed. Soon enough, the family dog rushes in, bursting with happy energy to see Hank. “Hey, handsome! Come meet Connor.”

“Hello, Kurgan!” Connor tries his hardest to conceal his excitement but fails miserably. Kurgan is already inspecting his hand, trying to gauge this potential new friend.

“He’s just sniffing you for anything suspicious. He’s always on duty because he thinks it’ll get him a treat,” Sally says. Hank didn’t even notice her at the doorway until he heard her speak. “I’m Sally. The hot one.”

“Hello, I’m Connor. The friend.”

“Welcome to the madhouse, Connor. Here.” Sally reaches into her jacket pocket where a paper bag is poking out and pulls out a treat. “Buy your love.”

Connor takes the vaguely bacon shaped nibble, and Sally, thankfully, leaves them to it. Hank knows she’s just biding her time, though. Meanwhile, Kurgan—who has already inhaled Connor’s offering—walks away to curl under Hank’s desk.

“I never noticed the bed,” Connor comments, sounding like he’s talking more to himself when he notices the little area that Hank set up for Kurgan out of pillows and blankets. Kurgan started sleeping there after Cole died. Hank figured he might as well be comfortable.

He migrates more toward the master bedroom downstairs in the evenings these days, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still grace Hank with his lofty presence.

“He likes to keep watch. Make sure I don’t get into any funny business, right?” The only response Hank gets is a wide eyed blink and a huff. “Thought so. Alright, make yourself comfortable while I start up this thing.”

“What are we doing?”

“We’re gonna school you at Super Mario Party is what we’re doing.”

“Which one?” Connor asks as he sits primly on the edge of the bed as if he hasn’t already been pressed down into the comforter by the weight of Hank’s body.

 _Shit,_ that sounds dirty.

 _Shit,_ now he’s thinking of it in a dirty way.

“Hank?” Connor prompts when Hank takes a moment too long to respond. “My understanding is that there are at least twenty Mario Party games. Though, I assume we aren’t playing on a handheld device.”

Hank rolls his eyes—fondly, of course—at Connor’s phrasing. His clinical manner of speech is sort of charming in its own way, especially since Hank is starting to recognize that Connor uses it when he wants to show off. Whether Connor realizes it or not is another matter entirely.

“Alright, smartass.” Hank pulls out his old Switch from the gaming cabinet. They don’t make new games for it anymore, but it’s worth keeping around for the old ones. Meg sometimes feels nostalgic whens he comes home, and they spend an evening testing their relationship through Mario Kart. The joy-cons are shiny with overuse, and there’s a little chip up near the top vent that appeared mysteriously after a mere week of owning it. “I heard the new one’s shitty. Which is fine ‘cause Super Mario Party is the best one anyway.”

“Is that an objective statement, Hank?” Connor replies, and even if he isn’t smiling, Hank can hear the humor in his tone.

“We don’t tolerate objectivity in this house, Con. Only dogged, stubborn opinion stated as fact, and _in my opinion,_ the first Super Mario Party is the best. So.”

“Fact?”

Hank grins over his shoulder at him. “Fact.”

Connor seems to settle into a more comfortable posture as Hank starts up the system and switches out cartridges. He’s had this copy for about half a decade now, but he hasn’t played it in a while. Meg and Sally foolishly believe its successor to be the better version. Two to one always wins the vote.

Time to educate the next generation. Or whatever.

“How many games have you played, anyway?” Hank asks as he passes Connor one of the joy-cons. The blue one, of course.  

Connor takes it in his lovely, piano player fingers and studies it with a look of scrutiny. His voice comes out hesitant and unsure. “Not...many.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank humors. Connor doesn’t like not knowing how to do things. “Sure. Well, they usually tell you what to press anyway. You use the analog stick for moving, and you have those four buttons there and—”

“I know how _buttons_ work Hank,” Connor cuts him off dryly, and Hank has to smile. Fair point.

“Hey, I’m just putting off your inevitable defeat, kid.” He plops down next to Connor on the end of the bed, shuffling a little so that their knees don’t brush.

“You’re very confident in your skills.”

To be fair, Hank isn’t just bullshitting. He’s never lost a game of Mario Party in his life, much to the chagrin of an eleven year old sister playing against her eight year old baby brother. He’s good at timing—or possibly lucky as hell in this very specific category—and thinks a few rolls ahead.

So like...not to brag, but he isn’t worried.  

They play ten rounds first because an hour isn’t that long in game time and because Connor has clearly never played before. Not that it’s rocket science or anything. Connor is possibly one of the smartest people that Hank has ever met in person; he’ll work it out.

Hank plays Daisy because she’s cute as fuck, and he likes the stability of her dice block. Connor picks Mario because ‘he’s the title character, Hank’ which Hank should have expected during his first playthrough. He’s curious to see which one Connor will settle with once he's more familiar. Everyone always settles with a favorite. They go with a middle of the road difficulty for the A.I. It’s pre-Cyberlife coding anyway, so they don’t exactly put the ‘intelligence’ in ‘artificial intelligence’ even at their best.

Hank wins. It’s not all that surprising, but he’s gracious about it. For the most part. He likes putting his money where his mouth is when it comes to Mario Party. Connor has had this little crease between his brows with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side the entire game. When they finish, Connor doesn’t look perturbed in the least. Instead, that furrow smooths out and the slant of his head straightens.

He glances at Hank with a pleased sort of smile (unnerving) and says, “Alright, I’m ready to play again.”

Hank remains as Daisy. Connor switches to Bowser. Since Wade hasn’t even started clanging around in the kitchen, Hank feels comfortable choosing a twenty round game with the dimwitted confidence of someone who never should have trusted a pretty face and a set of batting eyelashes.

The first five rotations, he is relaxed and self-assured. Connor gets the first star, but it’s fine. It’s cool. He can work with this.

Rounds six through ten start to worry him. (“How do always roll so good?!” “It’s all about timing, Hank.” “I’ve played this game before, thanks.”)

By the eleventh through fifteenth turn, he’s entirely frustrated and losing his composure in situations where he usually keeps a cool head. (“Peach, what the fuck are you doing?! Oh my god, _Peach!_ ”)

In the last five, he feels victory slipping from his fingers for the first time, and he doesn’t care for it. Connor ruthlessly steals a star from him despite already having a four star lead. (”Really, Con? Really?” The bed shakes with Connor’s attempt to conceal his laughter.) Hank ends up sitting on the floor in an effort to concentrate.

It doesn’t help at all. Hank turns around and buries his face in the side of the mattress as they announce the winner, knowing full well that even getting the two bonus stars isn’t going to change the results. Connor wins them both anyway.

“I won,” Connor says from on the bed, a note of satisfaction and an uptick of amusement in his tone. Hank flips him off without even looking up. Defeat is sour in his mouth. King finally dethroned by someone who played the game twice. _Twice._ “Do you want to play again?”

“Yes,” Hank grumbles because like hell is he letting this stand. Now that he’s paying attention, though, he can smell carbonara wafting up the stairs, and before they can even get back to the menu screen, Liv is predictably calling up the stairs. “Shit,” and then looking at Connor with a sternness in his features, “don’t tell them about this.”  

“Of course not.” Hank doesn’t believe that Connor means it even a little.

Hank bounces off the bed and gives his back a good stretch, exposing his belly for a hot second before he covers it in a rush. Nobody needs to see that.

“Come on,” he says, already heading for the door knowing Connor won’t be far behind. “We’ll eat and chill with a movie or something afterwards. Also, just...a warning.” He stops Connor at the top of the stairs. “Get ready for a grilling.” He tries to keep his face serious, but a tiny smirk still cracks at the corner of his lips.

“I thought we were having carbonara?” Connor remarks so dryly that it gives Hank pause for a moment. Connor doesn’t even attempt to hide his proud, little smile at that flash of hesitation. He thinks he’s so clever. It makes Hank’s heart skip a bit, but he does his best to scoff through it. Paranoid that Connor can see right into his ribcage.

“Oh, you’re gonna fit right in,” Hank groans. He huffs wryly and leads them down the stairs. The smell of garlic wafts up the landing and Hank almost feels cartoonishly coaxed to the dining table. Reaching the kitchen, he sees Liv moving around as she sets the table while Wade finishes up by the stove.

“Aw, fuck yeah, garlic bread,” Hank cheers when he sees his darling mother neatly place a dish at the center. Hank’s dropping into his seat the moment his stomach gurgles in anticipation.

“Forgive Hank’s one track mind,” Liv apologizes with a teasing wink thrown Connor’s way. “We’ve set your place right next to him.” Liv points at the empty chair to Hank’s left, and Connor sits down while Hank’s already busy piling up his share of bread.

“Keep an eye on that bread,” Sally warns from her usual spot, pouring herself some water from the pitcher. “Hank’s a shameless thief.”  

“Nah, he gets a free pass,” Hank says dismissively before turning to Connor. “It’s your first time here so I’ll be lenient.”

“You mean I might get invited again?” Connor’s tone is playful, but there’s a wideness to his eyes that makes him look almost earnest. Hank knows he could be reading into it, but he still needs a moment to gather himself.

“Yeah! I mean...if you—hey look, you might not even wanna come back after being around these guys.”

“No sass at my table,” Wade orders, carrying a large serving bowl steaming with fresh spaghetti and placing near the rest of the spread. “But do dig in.”

They waste no time in complying. Liv goes into full hostess mode and serves Connor a hearty dish. Hank steals a glance in Connor’s direction in hopes of seeing him react to that first taste, but Connor’s expression gives nothing away. It’s locked in neutrality.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,” Hank leans in to whisper amongst a moment of chatter. Connor seems like the sort of kid who’d politely suffer through an allergy attack.

“It’s not that,” Connor replies quickly. “I’ve never had carbonara before. It’s...overwhelming.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No! It’s...it’s really good.” Connor gives a bright, warm smile—so much easier than he used to when Hank first met him—and extends it to the rest of the table. Wade especially, who’s preening at a job well done. Sally watches from her seat with an inscrutable expression. Somewhere between humored and searching.

The table falls into a hungry silence, the only conversation between the cutlery and the dishes for a moment. It’s Liv who soon breaks the ice. No surprise there. Hank knows she’s been giddy about Connor since he got here.

“So what classes do you two share? I remember one of them was Psychology?” she asks Connor specifically.

“Yes and Criminal investigation.”

“Oh man, C.I. That takes me back,” Sally muses. “Is Mr Graham still a huge tool?”

“Sally,” Liv intervenes. Not necessarily angry but she knows how her daughter gets when talking about high school. Teachers she wasn’t keen on, in particular.

“What? He is. Am I right, or am I right?”

“Gotta agree with her on that one, Mom,” Hank acknowledges, despite the part of him that wants to oppose Sally’s point on principle, before turning to Connor. There’s a frown on his face as he carefully parses his answer.

“He serves his purpose as best he can.”

“Very diplomatic, Connor. I like it,” Wade says before shoving garlic bread in his mouth. Liv looks playfully exasperated as she serves herself a second helping.

“Troublemakers, all of you. Connor, sweetie, more pasta?”

“Yes, please.”

“What are your other classes?” Liv continues, spinning spaghetti onto the tines of her fork.

“Mom, come on.” There’s a flush creeping up the back of Hank’s neck for whatever reason, even as he knows that he’s being a touch dramatic about his weirdo family scaring off his friend.

“AP Human Geography, Sign Language II, Speech, AP Calculus BC, and Honors English,” Connor lists like Hank hadn’t spoken at all. As if he ever listens to anything that Hank says, anyway.

Liv’s eyebrows jump a little on her forehead. Hank can relate. When Connor had first let him see his schedule, he’d blurted out a rather stupid proclamation of, _‘Shit, you’re like...really fucking smart, huh?’_

His mother’s response is more eloquent. “That’s quite a spread you got yourself. I hope it isn’t too stressful.”

“It’s...” Connor looks almost bashful, glancing down at the glass plate as he gets his forkful of spaghetti sopping in the little moats of carbonara. He seems to lean heavily on the sauce when it comes to the Sauce to Pasta Ratio. “It isn’t too bad. Thank you for worrying.”

Before Hank can unpack the way Connor says that last bit, Wade is cutting in with, “Now, I haven’t been in school for awhile, but Calculus BC that’s...pretty good right?”

Trust Wade to nerd out about math.

“Best one they offer if they didn’t add anything since last year,” Sally tells him distractedly. She mops up the sauce left on her plate with the soft, buttery middle of her garlic bread. “All the computer nerds take it.” She glances up at Connor, not appearing all that apologetic, and tacks on, “No offense.”

“Are you good with computers?” Wade asks without acknowledging Sally. Sometimes it’s for the best.

Connor picks at the crust of his bread with both hands and peels it away at from the crumb. The corner of his lips twitch with some private joke that even Hank doesn’t feel privy to. “You could say that.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Con.” Hank knocks his shoulder with Connor’s. “He’s tryna feel you out. See if he can rope you into debugging his computer.”

“You know, when I was your age, I was the one the old people asked for help when they had computer problems.”

“What Age was that, Dad?” Sally starts, reaching for a new piece of bread now that her other two are demolished. “Stone? Bronze?”

“Hey watch it, kid,” Liv cuts in. She reaches over from her seat beside Sally and pokes her in the side. “I’m older than him, yaknow?”

“Sorry, Mamma.” Sally’s voice comes out softer in her apology.

Wade asks, “Oh, no sorry for Dad?” and the rest of their dinner continues in much the same way as it always does, albeit with questions for Connor speckled throughout.

“You got any siblings, Connor?” Livia questions at one point.

“You guys writing a biography on the kid or something?” Hank replies.

Wade sets his fork down on his plate with a clacking noise, leaning back into his seat. A sure sign he’s done indulging for the moment. “Who knows? He might get famous with that brain on him.”

Connor smiles politely. “I doubt that.”

Once everyone is clearly fat and happy with pasta and bread swelling in their bellies, Wade puts Sally on dish duty with him instead of Hank since Hank has company.

(Sally straight up sticks her tongue out at him and calls him a traitor to the throne. This only serves to confuse Connor, and Hank tries his best to explain the complicated, sibling history of their highly derivative Gem Kingdom. It’s mostly in-jokes and bits of missing information that Hank has forgotten as his brain developed. Connor comes out of it more confused than going in. Hank wonders if Connor shares many inside jokes with his own family.)

Liv freshens up. She has a meeting with her grief counselling group tonight, apparently. It’s not the day that she usually goes, but someone asked her to fill in as leader for a group that meets on Tuesdays. Which is quite a leap from a year ago when she was lying to them about where she was going at all. She felt guilty for hiding it. They all felt guilty for making her feel like she had to. It was pretty dramatic.  

“It was nice to meet you,” she tells Connor, keys jangling as she pulls her curly hair out and over the collar of her jacket.

“It was nice you meet you, too, Mrs—” Liv cuts him off with a raised and commanding eyebrow. “Livia.”

She gives a satisfied smirk in return. “Hope to see you again, Connor. Stay as late as you like. And you—” she aims a finger at Hank, keychain still clasped in her other fingers “—get him home safe.”

Hank rolls his eyes but agrees, pulling Connor back up the steps and into the safety of his room.

“Sorry about them,” he says once the door clicks behind them. Hank plops down on top of his blankets. The bed is made for once, and it’s...sort of fucking nice if he’s being honest.

“I like them.” Connor settles down near Hank’s feet on the opposite side of the mattress. “It was...different. We don’t really do that at my house. It’s much quieter.”

“Yeah?” Hank questions, sitting up easily so that they’re in closer, conversation distance. His curiosity always piqued during the rare moments when Connor talks about himself.

“I don’t really eat,” he explains with a sweet furrow that disappears as quickly as it came. He adds, almost tacked on, “At the table. With her. I don’t really eat with her.”

There’s something odd about the cadence of those words as they fall from Connor’s lips, but Hank can’t put his finger on what it is for sure. And he doesn’t want to pry.

“Sometimes, I eat up in my room, too,” he tries instead. “Mom and Dad have to work late some nights, and me and Sal just...hole up for dinner. Maybe share a pizza.”

Connor nods and grins, but there isn’t that same light behind it. Like he’s just putting on the motions. His eyes fixate on his hands where their clutched together a few inches from Hank’s thigh. He turns one on it’s side, opposite thumb stroking thoughtfully along the lines of his palm.

Hank tries to change the subject, not particularly caring for the shift in mood. Anything to get Connor off whatever unpleasant thoughts are churning around in that big brain of his. “Hey, we were going to watch a movie, right? You still wanna see _Blade Runner_?”

It isn’t like flipping a switch, but Connor does perk up minutely.

“I’d like that, very much.” His smile warms like that first spring breeze. “I have to see if your taste is as good as you claim.”

“Kid, all you’ll see is undeniable proof.” Hank puffs his chest in comical pride, before their banter is interrupted by scratching and pathetic little whines at Hank’s door.

“Is that...?” Connor’s eyebrows curve with a precious look of worry.

“A needy little crybaby?” Hank asks with a faint smile. “I dunno, let’s find out.”

Kurgan bursts through the door the moment that it’s opened just enough to squeeze his black and tan body through. He rushes towards Connor, tail sliding back and forth across the floor in sheer bliss when Connor finds that perfect spot behind his ears.

“Oh you like that don’t you, boy?” Connor coos. Hank turns from his stack of old blu-rays to meet Connor’s warm gaze. “He’s such a happy dog.”

“Maybe he just wants you to give him another treat,” Hank teases while skimming through his collection of oldies.

“You think so?” Connor asks, seeming dispirited by the notion. Hank feels a pang of guilt for goading him.

“Nah, Kurgan’s a sap. I’m pretty sure you’re his new best friend,” he jokes, but there’s a hint of affection in his voice. Connor must pick up on it, because his face breaks out into a smile again before becoming an outright laugh as Kurgan noses at his shirt. It’s nothing loud or boisterous, but Hank keeps his head turned all the same. Connor’s soft, breathy chuckle is infectious, and Hank finds himself flustered at such a lovely sound.

“What an honor.” Connor rubs Kurgan’s face even harder in celebration.

“Alright, alright. You’re spoiling him too damn much.” Hank pulls an old blu-ray from the pile and starts setting up the small entertainment system.

“Are you jealous, Hank? Did you want me to scratch your chin too?” Connor asks in that feigned innocence that drives Hank up the wall with its sheer sass. This time, however, Hank hides his embarrassment behind rolled eyes and a scoff. Because yeah. He would. Actually.

“Nah, you can’t buy my love that easily,” he bluffs as if he can see right through Connor. Connor, who—in turn—looks at him curiously with a small, bemused smile.

 _You fucked up,_ Hank tells himself. He clears his throat and dramatically waves at Connor to get up from the bed. Connor obliges obediently with Kurgan in tow.

“If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it in style.” Hank reaches over and pulls down his neatly made duvet, throwing it and his pillows to the floor. He folds everything as much as possible into a makeshift sitting area against the bed. He used to do this all the time. Back when he had friends. It feels nice to do it again, like an old habit he’s long forgotten. “Better for the back, and Kurgan—” who proceeds to plant himself in the blankets damn near instantly at the sound of this name. Lazy thing, “—can join too...”

Hank shares an amused look with Connor. Connor settles behind the sleeping dog while Hank dims the lights.

Hank rarely exposes the things he he’s nerdy about to others. An insecure possessiveness keeps his interest in old movies and games at a downlow around people like Gary or Pedro who are prone to mocking anything that’s older than five years.

Connor, though, has shown nothing but revered interest in his life from the moment he stepped into it. As the camera pans across the neon city of Los Angeles, establishing the futuristic world of a bygone mentality, Hank tries to steal glances in Connor’s direction. Fearfully waiting for him to laugh at the fashion, the music, something as stupid as ‘off-world colonies’. But he doesn’t. Connor keeps his vision transfixed as if studying it all very carefully.

“It’s weird how people used to think the future’d look, huh?”

“I’m thankful for how inaccurate the fashion turned out to be,” Connor replies without turning to meet Hank’s gaze.

“I dunno. We’re obviously in the darkest timeline, cause I’d kill for that shirt.”

Connor’s expression might as well say ‘it’s so loud it makes my ears bleed’, but he’s just too polite to use his words with Kurgan there.

As the introduction of the film settles them deeper into Ridley Scott’s dystopian universe, covered in the fingerprints of its creator’s era and the fears bred during that time, Hank and Connor settle deeper into the nest of pillows on the floor. Connor inches closer as Kurgan comes to lay next his other hand, and Hank tries to ignore the warmth of Connor’s shoulder so near.  

Deckard—one of Hank’s first crushes but there’s no way he’s telling Connor that—is currently using the Voigt-Kampff Test on what he doesn’t yet know is a replicant. She doesn’t know it either.

Hank’s mind is drifting into familiar thoughts of pity for the poor replicants when he first notices Connor adjusting the position of his hand in Hank’s periphery. Now resting between them, Connor’s palm lays ever so slightly closer to Hank’s own. He makes sure to keep it still now, as if any sudden movements might spook Hank away.

Hank watches the way Connor’s pinky slides back and forth along the duvet. A subconscious tick that makes Hank’s heart beat a little faster with how cute he finds it. He thinks he might be bias.

He wonders what would happen if he...leaned a little closer. What if maybe he slid his fingers between Connor’s like slotting together a box joint. What if he tilted his head to catch Connor’s attention, just enough for Connor to mirror Hank’s actions. Hank’s mind floods with ‘what ifs’ until he’s dwelling on how soft Connor’s lips could be. He knows they’re warm. In his thoughts, they always are.

He feels his body twitching to lean in, ready to trigger some muscle memory, but he holds back. He focuses on the screen. Rachael the Replicant is pleading her humanity. Sean Young gives the performance of a lifetime, and yet Hank doesn’t notice.

What if Connor doesn’t want him? The thought frightens him for a moment, but what comes after shakes him to his core. What if he _does?_ What if Hank is so desperate to feel good that he rushes head first into this and fucks it all up? Robin is already a prime example of the collateral damage and burned bridges that Hank has left behind.

Is that what could happen with Connor? Hank’s stomach twists into a knot so tight it hurts, the fear of a future where he fucks up Connor’s expectations tangling in his gut.

He shuffles further into his spot, trying to loosen out the tenseness in his shoulders. He needs to get out of his own head. It’s just a movie. It’s just Connor. It’s just a hand laying innocently on the covers between them—

Connor lets out a sound like a sigh and settles closer to him on the blanket, arm pressing against Hank’s and head lolling to the side. It isn’t enough for his temple to rest against Hank’s shoulder, but it’s a very near thing.

Hank swallows nervously, the back of his neck burning in the dark. On screen, the replicant called Pris—with, admittedly, the most god awful haircut that Hank has ever seen—meets genetic designer J. F. Sebastian. Kurgan grumbles where he’s lying on Connor’s other side. Sulking, probably, because Connor’s adjustment has moved him out of petting range.

Shifting them closer would be so easy. An arm slung behind Connor to pull him close. The slightest tilt to his body to coax Connor’s head down onto his shoulder. A simple slide of his hand to where Connor’s is now resting near his knee. Hank's fingers itch where they’re so close to Connor’s leg that he thinks he can feel the energy cracking off of Connor’s body. Which is...ridiculous, of course, but it doesn’t stop Hank from rubbing overwarm palms against the thighs of his jeans.

He had forgotten about the sex scene, a massive oversight when setting up a movie to watch with someone whose ass has definitely been cause for distraction on multiple occasions. Sure, it feels comparably more embarrassing than watching with any family member over forty, but it helps that there are some intentional consent issues at play as Deckard very clearly forces that initial kiss.

Or maybe doesn’t help at all. Connor shifts his position again to press even closer into Hank’s side, and Hank wonders suddenly what Connor _wants_ him to do. He crosses his own arms tightly across his chest, focusing instead on Connor’s reactions in the flickering light of the television. As much as he leans closer and places his hands in offering and seems to ask for something that Hank is abruptly terrified to give, he also doesn’t shift his fixated gaze from the film.

He relaxes when the affection between Deckard and Rachael becomes more obviously reciprocated. He tenses at the appropriate parts, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth, and seems strangely perturbed when Roy kisses his creator before killing him. His facial expressions may be slight, but they are a delightful journey.

By the time they reach the ‘Tears in the Rain’ speech, Connor has given up his endeavors in closeness. He leans forward with his legs criss-crossed beneath him, knee just grazing Hank’s thigh. His eyes flit wildly as Roy watches Deckard hold onto the rain slick, metal beam to keep himself from plummeting to the city streets below and compares the feeling to being a slave. Brow furrowed and head tilted from the moment that Roy pulls Deckard up onto the roof to Deckard finding that folded unicorn and spinning it between his fingers, metallic finish glinting in the light.

“You can tell me if you didn’t like it,” Hank tells him as the elevator doors slide shut behind Deckard and Rachael. He thinks again of Connor at the dinner table with a plate full of carbonara.

When the credits roll, Connor leans back into his original spot in perplexed thought.

“No, I—” Connor stops himself, eyes darting across the screen where the cast and crew are listed blandly on a black backdrop. The synthesizer is piercing yet somehow dulled all at once like the sound is being driven through a tunnel. “I liked it. It was...overwhelming.”

Hank understands the words even less the second time that Connor says them. He wonders if that’s a good thing but doesn't dare ask.

“Deckard was a replicant,” Connor continues just as Hank is opening his mouth to reply.

“I mean...it’s sort of implied,” Hank says as he moves toward the television to stop the movie from playing. He needs something to do with his hands and isn’t even sure why. “But I think it’s...also meant to be open? Since they’re asking what the difference is.”

Connor stares thoughtfully up at the television even as the screen goes blue, pale skin taking on an azure glow in the light of it. “Did they plant the unicorn in his head?”

Hank snaps the disk into place within its case, spinning it so that the title is needlessly straight within the divot before answering, “Does it matter?”

Connor goes quiet and thoughtful in response. He scritches the place between Kurgan’s ears, and the dog’s eyes flutter back closed, contented for the attention once again.

“I, uh.” Hank clears this throat and rubs at the back of his neck. “Should probably take ya home soon. Dad doesn’t like me out too late on the bike.”

“He must have hated it on Friday then,” Connor replies without any judgement in his tone. Only levity.

Hank lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, I was a bit of shit, alright? Think we all can agree on that much.”

“You weren’t so bad,” Connor says, fondly. His mouth turns down at the corners as a comfortable silence passes between them. Hank is afraid that something upsetting has passed through his mind like it had earlier, but then, “I don’t have to wear that helmet again, do I?”

“Oh, you _absolutely_ do.”

.

“I had a very nice time,” Connor states, polite as ever, as he passes the vibrantly blue helmet back to Hank from the curb.

Hank flips the screen of his helmet up while he puts the headgear away, always feeling a little rude talking through the windguard. “Yeah, me too. We should do it again sometime.”

He’s heard those words handed out as a platitudes before, but he hopes that Connor knows he means them. Hank’s family seemed to like Connor (who wouldn’t really), and tomorrow’s therapy means that  he’ll luck out of being bombarded with questions about ‘the lovely Mr. Stern’. Still straddling his bike, Hank leans back and glances back at Connor’s home.

“Nice house, by the way,” Hank says, motioning upward with Sally’s helmet still in hand. He shoves it into the storage compartment as Connor turns to look as if needing to confirm that it’s still there.

“It’s—” he cuts himself off, seeming unsure what words describe the place. Finally, he settles on, “Nice. That’s my room.”

Hank’s eyes follow where Connor points toward what looks like a single room on the third floor. A tower, really. That’s the best way that Hank can describe it. It reminds him of those old fairy tales about sad princes and princesses trapped in spires.

(Hank didn’t realize until he was much older that it wasn’t ever ‘princes’ actually. His mother had changed it up for flavor. He likes her versions better, anyway.)

“Seems…” _Lonely. Isolated. Secluded. No, Hank, those sound shitty as hell. Maybe he likes it this way._ “Private.”

In all honesty, there are a thousand situations where Hank might find it kind of whimsical, but somehow, with all he knows of Connor, it just feels cold and distant. Like he really is Rapunzel in the tower.

“I’ve made it my own,” Connor replies with a small smile as if it’s an office space that needed renovating. Hank has to repeat again and again that it isn’t his place to comment.  He tries to focus, instead, on what Connor’s room might look like. Neat, he imagines.

“Maybe I’ll get to see it sometime.”

Fuck, he hopes that didn’t come off lewd. He rings his hands around the bike’s steering bars.

“Maybe.” Connor’s smiles widens fractionally, and he shuffles on his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning, Hank.”

“Yeah, if you’re lucky,” Hank teases, even though they both know he’s putting on airs. Connor rolls his eyes a little, and for a moment he looks like he might sway forward for a hug.

He doesn’t. He turns on his heel and walks through the wet grass toward the front door of the house. Hank waits patiently on the grey, cement road on his motorcycle.

There’s a movement in the front window, curtains being pulled aside, and Hank thinks that it’s Connor peeking out at him to wave goodbye. Instead, Amanda Stern stands still and cold as stone, watching him with shrewd eyes in the darkness of the house. Hank lifts his hand in greeting. Amanda closes the hangings behind her without returning the gesture.

From the third story, a light flips on in those windows that peer down like eyes, and Connor appears in the yellow light. Hank can’t see his face. Just the shape of him. He can make out the way that he waves a cheerful goodbye, however, and whatever coldness had settled into Hank’s chest at the sight of Amanda melts away in the warmth of it.

Hank signals his own farewell and drives off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Into the Spider-Verse_ is gonna be a classic for the new generation so Hank and Simon are suitably appalled that Connor hasn't seen it. Side note, the scene of Hank flipping Connor off when he lost to him at Mario Party was inspired by an artwork I saw ages ago. No clue where I saw it, tho. It's just still floating around in my brain. 
> 
> We are revving up to some things so stay tuned! ;)
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](http://roboxcop.tumblr.com) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](http://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)!


	8. Part I, October 13th 2028 (Connor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiiiii there. Um...sorry for the wait again lol. Life shit happened. But anyway here is our gift of a new chapter! This one is a little Hank lite, but we hope you enjoy Connor making friends and ramping up for Halloween. 
> 
> • CW for some little hints of Unrequited Daniel/Connor. From my personal experience I know that seeing little hints of stuff like that can make some readers nervous that the story is veering into love triangle territory when that isn't what they're here for. Don't worry that isn't what's happening. Connor only got eyes for thicc yo lol  
> • TW for some very small hints of homophobia (particularly from parents). We forgot to tag something similar to this in the last chapter and we apologize for that! I went back and added it for later readers. We don't intend for homophobia to be a big theme in this world as we like to believe that the world will have gotten more tolerant in ten years, but at the same time it's only ten years. It's bound to still be around enough to come up, and we don't wanna ignore that.
> 
> Anyway! On a happier note! [doomcheese](https://twitter.com/cheesecake_doom/) drew Connor meeting Kurgan from last chapter [here](https://twitter.com/cheesecake_doom/status/1094281909532848128) and omg it's so beautiful we could cry!

**October 13th, 2028**

October rolls across Michigan with the same decorative giddiness that it always does. Halloween is just around the corner. Connor notices more and more homes settling into the spirit of the season—pun very much intended—and it doesn’t take long for those familiar orange and black hues to spill through the halls of Donovan-Powell High.

Connor can’t help but be charmed by the festivities, nor does he try to stop himself. It’s his first Halloween out in the wide, open world after all. He’s allowed to get swept up in it. He’s allowing himself more things these days, he notes as Hank rests lazily against the locker doors. He’s started wearing a scarf in the colder weather, but the purpose of it is lost when Hank insists on keeping his neck tastefully exposed. It’s distracting. Connor takes a moment to (quite literally) gather his thoughts, focusing instead on the contents of his locker. Another school day is over, and it’s time to reshuffle his books in what he’s found to be a cathartic routine.  

“You doing anything for Halloween?” Hank keeps his tone casual while watching school staff finish hanging the last of the paper decorations on the wall.

“Specifically?” Connor asks, rhetorically, as he pulls a book that he won’t need out by the spine. “No. You?”

“Nah. I mean I fucking loved taking Cole but uh…” Hank trails off, his throat bobbing before he can finish his sentence. The pain lingers in his eyes. Connor knows he’s berating himself for it. If only he knew the progress he’s made by just mentioning his brother’s name. Sober, too. “Now, I just...get drunk I guess.”

“You don’t _have_ to get drunk.”

“Guess you’re right.” Hank gives him a fond smile. Connor loves those. They never last, though. Hank always ends up looking away in a panic when he realizes what he’s doing. Connor may be an advanced prototype, capable of reading even the slightest of microexpressions, but there’s nothing micro about Hank.

He gives himself a moment to process and file the wording of that away for later.

“You know,” Hank begins, breaking the familiar awkward silence that sometimes hangs between them in moments like these, “word on the street is your buddy Markus might be throwing a Halloween party.” Hank leans towards Connor, keeping his voice low as if sharing some sort of secret too sensitive for passing ears.

“He’s your friend too, Hank,” Connor replies. Tone a much more uniform volume. He doesn’t share in the conspiratory posturing and turns to look at Hank with a cocked smile. Ever since the incident with Gary’s homophobia, Markus and company have made sure to keep a space empty for Hank.

“Yeah, sort of, but you’re close with the First Boyfriend.”

Connor shuts his locker door behind him, hitching his bag onto his shoulder as he says, “He invited me to hang out with him after school today.”

“Over at his place?” Hank asks, but Connor still notices the high inflection of his voice. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected much of a reaction. Hank has become excellent at controlling those since Connor’s first visit to his home.  

“Yes.” Connor feels a tension he can’t quite place. Hank is busy today, after all... “I’d still love to hear how your counselling session went, though.”

“You need to get a hobby that’s not my emotional baggage, dude,” Hank deflects. Before Connor can retort, though, Hank gives his shoulder a squeeze and continues, “but I will I promise. I’d just hate to interrupt nerd time.”

Hank grins at his own joke. Connor shoots him a Look.

“I might not even go. I haven’t asked my mother yet.”

“Well, she doesn’t like _me,_ but she lets you come to mine all the time, right?” While it’s true Amanda has allowed Connor to visit Hank each time he’s asked, it’s always been with a foreboding sense that, eventually, it’ll be one time too many. Or, worse, that it’s merely a transaction waiting for its price to come due.

“She doesn’t like anyone, Hank,” Connor states with a hint of solemnity.

“She likes you, right?” Hank questions. It seems simple enough, an answer so obvious that he’s already laughing it off before Connor can even reply. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie? He smiles along, instead. Try as he might, he can’t seem to override the yawning urge to tell Hank the truth about…well, many things, really.

“It’s just last minute, is all.” Connor knows that deep down Amanda doesn’t really care. It’s more the inconvenience that comes with him asking at all. He knows that if he doesn’t, though, it will lead to larger problems.

“I’m sure she’ll be relieved it’s not me,” Hank jokes, and Connor gives an exasperated smile. Hank’s self deprecation is something Connor has grown used to but not fond of.

“What did your therapist say?” Connor queries knowingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank surrenders, rolling his eyes in a way that’s more show than actual irritation. “‘Cut the self hate.’ Good thing I got you around to remind me.”

“Always.”

There’s that silence again. It’s never too long, but in the seconds it takes for Hank to reply to such an obvious note of affection, Connor’s already seen the way his pupils dilate. The way his adam’s apple slides down his neck, swallowing out of reflex. The intoxicating yet frustrating, half-hearted chuckle.

“Dork,” Hank says with his head down. “I’ll catch you later. If I don’t go now, I’ll be stuck behind all the soccer moms. Say hi to Simon for me.”

He lingers for a gentle wave before disappearing into the throng of students.

Connor admits that he feels a little bit lost without him. He’s surprised by how accustomed to their routine he’s become. Hank usually waits—‘soccer moms’ be damned, as he would put it—but Connor understands why he doesn’t today.

Connor shuffles on his feet outside of the glass doors of the school. He’s designed with idle movements to make his posturing more...lifelike. Approachable. Real. Lately, though, he’s started to wonder about that. About where his programming ends and his own choices begin. After all, actions that are built into his system shouldn’t take him by surprise, right? And yet, as his eyes follow the place where Hank had cut through the parking lot, he knows it’s something beyond coding.

Hank is outside of his code in a multitude of ways, not least of which is his obvious reluctance to initiate something with Connor despite the glaring evidence that Connor would like for him to and the equally as conspicuous  fact that Hank reciprocates that desire. Connor has been to Hank’s house two and a half more times since the last visit. ‘Half’ because Hank had been gathering his books haphazardly after a study session in Psychology and accidently packed Connor’s notes away with his own. Connor had noticed. He hadn’t mentioned it until later. He still ended up staying longer than he should.

In the most recent instance, he and Hank had been alone in the Anderson home. Connor had touched him 24% more than usual and let his hands linger for several milliseconds longer he normally might have. It had definitely garnered Hank’s attention. He grew red in the ears and, despite wanting to act on it, made a self deprecating joke before stuffing a Little Debbie’s product into his mouth.

This had been enough to distract Connor as he’d hoped that his declaration of the sugar content in the snack would have been enough to dissuade Hank. Hank always makes sure to deflate whatever tension Connor manages to build back to zero.

It was frustrating.

It’s always frustrating.

Of course, Connor knows that he could initiate on his own but he finds himself—

_Nervous. Inexperienced. Afraid of rejection._

Amanda would scoff at these emotions.

No. Not emotions. Not to her. Simulations.

Her sleek, black car pulls into the parking lot. There’s a smoothness in its movements that tells Connor she’s put it into automated driving mode today, a sure sign that she’s too caught up in work to take her eyes from the phone as she drives. Perhaps the distraction will help, Connor thinks. Nervous, as he always is, at the thought of asking for another favor.

Instead of opening the car door, Connor taps on the outside of the window. The tinted glass slides down after a long moment, sun glinting off of another car in its reflection.

“Connor,” Amanda greets him with a smile that is very nearly genuine. She seems to be having a good day. She sets her phone into its cradle beside the ventilation system.

“Hello.” Connor leans in a little with his hand still gripping the strap of his backpack. He’s seen other students stand this way before while talking to their families and friends and girlfriends. He hopes he’s emulating it properly. “A friend wanted me to drive home with them.”

Amanda’s face does not fall, but it does go stiff around the corners. Her nostrils from flare ever so slightly. “The boy with the motorcycle again?”

“No, actually,” Connor continues. He doesn’t care for the idea that _not_ seeing Hank is something to proud of, but there’s a stubborn fulfillment that rises up like an involuntary string of coding at the thought that she might be pleased to see him making friends elsewhere. “Simon Phillips.”

Her eyes flit across his face as if searching for signs of deception. They glance over his shoulder next. Connor follows them to where they find Simon standing at the curb. He’s too far away to speak to Amanda, but he waves. Pleasant but not over enthusiastic or cloying. Daniel’s near identical face appears beside him, shoulder checking his twin brother rudely in a way that distracts both boys with their bickering.

“Well,” Amanda begins, whatever tension was there now gone, sounding at least a little more approving than she does at the very idea of Hank Anderson, “at least you’re broadening your horizons.”

“Is it—”

“Elijah likes that you’ve been socializing,” she interrupts with a detachment to her tone that isn’t altogether mean, “and I can’t entirely disagree. You are programmed to learn after all.” She looks back at him with sharp eyes. They are just barely warm. Enough for Connor to draw toward it like a small animal seeking even the slightest heat to chase away the cold. “I just hope that you’ll remember all of this the next time you’re feeling stubborn, Connor.”

Connor parses his words carefully. He’s sure she doesn’t notice his pause the way that he does as she lays down her price for such luxuries. Compliance. “I won’t let you down, Amanda.”

“I wish you’d told me before I drove over here,” she adds, scoldingly. She settles back into her seat and plucks her cell out again.

“I...didn’t think you would approve of me texting in class.”

Amanda hums. Her fingers glide over the door panel, seeking out the button to roll the window up without another word.

“She seems nice,” Simon tells him as Connor approaches. His voice is genuine, and Connor has to remind himself that not everyone is as observant as Hank can be.

Well...as observant as Hank can be _most of the time._

“I’m driving,” Daniel adds as he pulls jangling keys out of his jacket pocket. Connor has seen Daniel at the helm of the car that he and Simon take to and from school. Never Simon. Always Daniel. He assumes the statement must be for his own benefit. “We gotta stop by the Seventh Grade Center to pick up our sister. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Connor replies, trying to even his tone into something casual after his interaction with Amanda. He hadn’t known they had a sister at all. Maybe he does need to be more diligent.

They push their way through the growing mob of carpoolers with ease and are soon a part of the larger throng of traffic making its way north. Daniel is a mostly quiet chauffeur, only piping up to shoot Simon antagonistic remarks.

“Look at that dog!” Simon calls out during one of the intersections, rushing for his phone. Connor surprises himself with how quickly his face is practically pressed against the window in order to spot something closer to a cotton ball than a dog. It shakes on the spot, and it’s shiny, zirconia bedazzled collar sparkles in the sunlight. From Connor’s periphery, he hears Simon’s phone click as he takes a photo.

“You guys are dorks,” Daniel says, rolling his eyes as he pulls away from the roadside attraction. He steals a glimpse at Simon editing with careful swipes of his fingertips across his cell’s glass. “So what account you gonna upload that one to?” Daniel doesn’t sound as innocent as his question implies, and even from the back seat Connor can tell Simon has noticed it too.

“Shut _up,_ Daniel,” Simon hisses but his tone is meek, broken, in comparison.

“What? It’s an honest question,” Daniel replies with a shrug. “I mean what if Connor wants to like it?”

“Oh, good point.” Simon’s face lights up, deflecting Daniel entirely as he twists in the passenger seat to face Connor. “Do you have an IG?”

Using his delicate and exorbitant brain, Connor can keep up with the social beats thanks to his high speed research. It’s surprising the number of times Connor finds himself utterly ignorant of cultural staples like important movies or, in this case, social-media websites. From what he gathers in the 0.53 seconds it takes him, ‘IG’ is an old platform primarily focused on photographs and videos that had a massive resurgence within the last couple years. They rebranded themselves entirely, instead going by the initials IG. Many people had nicknamed it such in it’s earlier years, and branding with abbreviations was in vogue when the changes occured.

“No,” Connor starts hesitantly. “No, I don’t. Do you think I should get one?”  

“Well I’m addicted, so I don’t think my judgement counts. It’s nice to see what people find worth taking pictures of. Everyone has an account these days.”

“Some of us even have two,” Daniel snipes under his breath.

“Do you have an account, Daniel?” Connor asks.

“Sure do. I lurk more, though. Heck, even Emma has one.” Daniel turns to Simon, a bright smile on his face that outshines the gloom that was there mere moments before. “Remember when she turned thirteen and Mom finally let her get one? It was damn near ceremonial. We were fucking dumb.”

“She likes sharing her dance routines.” Simon’s tone indicates fondness towards this mysterious baby sister. Connor wonders who she resembles most out of the two.

They pull up to the Seventh Grade Center as a whole crowd of preteens pour out in droves. Connor couldn’t tell which one is the younger Phillips even if he tried. Not that he has to. The door bursts open as a young girl with chestnut hair and a pastel backpack jumps in.

“Hey guys!” she greets, warmly. It’s only then that she notices Connor, freezing in suspicion. “Who are you?”

“My name is Connor.” He tries not to sound like he’s wary of scaring a small animal, but luckily it doesn’t look like she picks up on it either way. “You must be Emma?”

“Are you one of Daniel’s friends or Simon’s?”

“Both?” he attempts, taken aback by the way she cuts brusquely past his question, “I’d like to think.”

“He’s cool,” Daniel interjects. “Coming over to nerd out with Simon for the evening.”

“Do Mom and Dad know?” The look of distrust doesn’t quite leave her face.  

“I texted mom,” Simon tells her.

“Oh that’ll work,” Daniel says, his voice is dripping with sarcasm. “You should have just called her.”

“I can’t really do that at school, can I?” Simon snaps back and leaves Daniel quiet.

Try as Simon might to hide it with pleasant conversation and tunes from his song library, the tension is palpable for the rest of the car ride. Emma seems to be unphased by it all and spends the drive on her phone. Connor wonders if she’s also updating her IG account. He wonders if _Hank_ has one. He debates searching online and decides against it. Not now, anyway.

They arrive at a quiet cul de sac filled with far more trees than Hank’s neighborhood, and the house is considerably newer than the Andersons’. Connor gives himself pause. He needs to stop comparing, no matter how emotionally attached he is to Hank’s home. Always so warm and welcoming…

Not that the Phillips’ household isn’t. Immediately, Connor is met with tasteful decor. Deep colors. Built in lights that seem more for atmosphere than vision. As they’re taking off their shoes (house rules), Connor hears the sound of a woman calling from deeper inside the home.

“Kids? Is that you?”

“Yeah, just us!” Simon calls back as he waves Connor along behind him. They pad along the hardwood floors that lead to an open and bright kitchen. Hanging lamps shine over the metal counter of an island where a woman with a striking resemblance to Daniel and Simon stands, idly flipping through a magazine while the pot by her side simmers.

Emma’s features are similar enough that Connor would be willing to bet that she grew up being compared to the matriarch of the family often, but they seem to be drifting toward something different as she enters her teens. Possibly swaying in the direction of her father. Connor hasn’t seen him yet, so he couldn’t really say.

“Who’s this?” the twin’s mother asks with a look that stays just barely on the side of polite but keeps straying into suspicion. Her eyes, untouched by her smile, linger on him for a moment. She appears to be questioning Daniel rather than Simon. Daniel goes waspish at the attention.

“This is Connor, Mom,” Simon tells her before Connor’s usual introduction can leave his parted lips. “I texted you about him.”

Their mother’s shoulders relax in a way that she probably hopes they don’t notice. Connor does, but it’s only because it’s in his programming to do so.

“You know I forget to check my texts, sweetie,” she says as she stirs the bubbling sauce. “I had a recipe up.”

“We bought you that tablet for Christmas, Mom!” Emma calls as she settles onto the sofa further inside the house.

“And I love it! I just haven’t gotten the hang of it yet!” she shouts back, clearly exasperated. Her public smile remains. “I’m Mrs. Phillips by the way,” she adds at the end, turning her focus on Connor.

Simon tells her, “We’re just dropping our stuff off. We’re going shopping for Halloween stuff.”

“I thought kids these days got everything online.”

Simon rolls his eyes as he tugs Connor in the same direction that Emma had gone. “Sometimes you need to see how stuff looks when it’s on.”

Mrs. Phillips hums a distant and disinterested agreement. Connor isn’t even sure she was listening. Her voice carries as Simon moves down the hallway with purpose.

“He can’t be in your room with the door shut, Daniel.”

“What the hell, Mom?” Daniel snaps back.

“I would say the same thing if Simon had a girl over,” she replies, offhandedly. This is a appears to be a repeating argument, and Daniel snorts in response. Connor doesn’t think he was meant to hear any part of that conversation. He isn’t even sure he _could_ if he was human.

Simon pulls them into what must be his bedroom and shuts the door behind himself. It’s not as personalized as Hank’s is. There are school books and a laptop on a small desk. A laundry hamper and a bed that’s blanketed with generic, navy comforter and shams. Connor scans the area with quick eyes. He finds evidence that the Phillips own a cat—seal-point Himalayan—on Simon’s bed, chair and a particular spot on the ground that Connor assumes gets the most sunlight, but he has yet to see it slinking through the house.

Simon slings his backpack down onto the mattress and motions for Connor to do the same. “You can leave your bag here.”

“Does your mother not know that you’re dating Markus?” Connor asks without preamble.

“Shhh,” Simon hushes sharply, eyes darting to the closed door. Connor doesn’t know why. Mrs. Phillips isn’t there nor is she anywhere near enough to overhear. Simon whispers all the same. “No! She—my parents don’t know that I’m…”

Simon trails off, his energy cagey. At school, he’s so comfortable in his own sexuality that this shifting sort of posture looks almost alien on him.

“They found out about Daniel last year,” Simon starts to explain without meeting Connor’s gaze. He picks at a thread in his backpack’s stitching. “It’s not like—they didn’t kick him out or threaten to send him away or anything. They try not to be mean, but it...didn’t go well. They were upset. I’m not ready for them to know about me.”

Connor is quiet for a moment, searching his databases for something appropriate to say to his friend. “Coming out is a very important part of the LGBT experience. Despite all the strides in the past century, it can even be a dangerous one. It’s understandable to be cautious about it.”

“I don’t think Daniel thinks so,” Simon mumbles.

“It’s not really his place to say.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Simon’s lips, and it’s only barely a wry one. “Thanks, Con.”

There’s a contemplative silence between them. The air is weighted but not awkward, and the sound of Emma playing a video game with a heavy saturation of gun violence drifts lazily through the walls.

“Here,” Simon says finally. He’s reaching out his hand for Connor’s bag. Connor didn’t set it down when Simon had offered before. “Leave that, and we’ll go. I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

.

Daniel comes with them on their excursion. The mall is large and crowded which surprises Connor considering the cultural preference for purchases delivered directly to their doorstep. It is, however, the last center of its kind left in a twenty-seven mile radius, and the date is Friday. Perhaps the mass of bodies shuffling across the glossy tiles, hands filled with bags from various shops, does make sense when all is considered.

There’s a specific store that Simon has in mind apparently, because he makes a beeline past several clothing shops in favor of one that looks to be changed out seasonally for whatever happens to be appropriate. At the moment, it’s decorated in cotton-polyester blend spiderwebs that are stretched between surfaces regardless of whether it makes sense for them to be there and plastic zombies that cackle as customers pass through the entrance. Simon finds these amusing. Daniel does not.

There’s a sign out front in large, generic lettering declaring that there’s a sale on all costuming for Friday the 13th. A little piece of superstition capitalized on due to it falling so close to Halloween.  

The store feels like a burst of saturation the moment that Connor steps inside. Naturally, it’s even more busy that the rest of the mall. People with arms full of costumes to try and garish decorations—tableaus of blood and rotting flesh and bare bones—shuffling leisurely through the aisles.

Connor instantly finds himself drifting into the rows of bright fabrics. He lets his fingers glide along sequin tops, the bundles of fiber optic sensors in their tips feeling the smoothness of every shimmering, plastic scale. He spots a hat skewered with a particularly fluffy, pastel pink plume and reaches for it.

He’s about to indulge in donning it when he catches Daniel watching just behind him. The sudden awareness of his actions stops Connor in his tracks. Daniel must notice. He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly.

“Any ideas what you wanna go as?” He looks at the surrounding displays, most of them headgear, that peer down at him with disembodied, plastic mannequin heads.

“Not really,” Connor answers with a shrug as he strokes the rim of the cap. “I’ve never celebrated Halloween.”

“How does anyone get away with never celebrating Halloween?” Daniel blurts. The exclamation stings Connor. He does his best to hide his hurt by putting the pink feathered hat back where he found it. The ruse must be clear as day to Simon, however. He steps in, slapping his brother across the arm in reprimand, and gives Connor a tired yet empathetic smile.

“Let’s look at the catalogue. That might make it a little easier to narrow down.”

He guides Connor up to the next floor. Tablets, hooked to the wall in rows, sit idle with a neat welcome screen, ready for customers to browse instead of having to climb up and down two stories full of clothes and decor. Daniel picks one of them for himself while Connor and Simon pool over the tablet next to him. The main screen already has pictures of popular choices.

“‘Colorful Plumber’,” Connor reads. The display image shows a man in a loud, red shirt and an even louder mustache. “‘Gentleman Spy’.” Connor likes the pinstripe suit but would find it a nuisance to carry an umbrella all eventing. “‘Symbiotic Alien’.” Too tight.

Simon lets out a small laugh. “The names are so copyright safe.”

Connor looks over the names once more. He does a quick search of the images on display, and the technicalities _do_ merit points for creativity.

“I wonder what my nonspecific costume name would be,” Simon muses. He looks back wistfully at the screen and continues to scroll.

“‘Closet Twink’,” Daniel supplies beside him, causing his brother to tense almost instantly.

“Get fucked, Daniel.”

“I like ‘Math Boy’,” Connor says instead. His adaptability may not be welcome amongst the personal tension between the two, but seeing Simon so visibly upset triggers a protective response in Connor. His friend’s features soften and relax.

“Thank you, Connor. Or should I say ‘Bear Cub Wrangler’?” He gives Connor a playful shove, and Connor’s insides warm, understanding exactly what he means. He smiles back, saying nothing but thankful when Daniel storms off into the rows of fabric. Simon, meanwhile, keeps his focus on the screen.

“I suggest something comfortable,” he advises. “Something to get in and out of.” There’s a long, thick pause before Simon adds, “For bathroom breaks.”

Connor doesn’t believe him, and Simon’s sly, twitching smile doesn’t exactly instill further confidence.

He watches the multitude of outfits scroll past his vision, knowing he could access the database and have information on everything in the catalogue within seconds. Seeing the way Simon puts such careful, even consideration into finding something for Connor makes the whole process slower, albeit fun.

“What about this one?” Connor points, unable to resist a smirk when he sees ‘Musical Showperson’. It includes a bright, red jacket and large top hat.

“Flamboyant! I like it.” Simon taps the item into the electronic basket.

“What about you? Don’t you need to find one?”

“Yeah but…” Simon hesitates before looking at Connor again. “I have to be careful about it.” His eyes have a sad glaze to them for a split second, but he seems to forget his worries straight away. “Plus, I’m trying to convince Markus to dress up with me.”

His grin comes out a little shy. Connor cocks his head in question, wondering at the benefits of dressing with someone else in mind.

Perhaps Simon picks up on it, or on something else entirely, because he continues, “Halloween can be fun for things like that.”

“Kind of hard to do a couple’s costume alone,” Connor quips. His sass is met with a friendly eye roll.

“True…” Simon begins thoughtfully. “You could still impress someone, though.” Connor can read the lilt in Simon’s tone. Can see the playful micro-expressions of someone testing the waters.

“Can you recommend anything that might cause a reaction?”

Simon hums at the screen once more before a lightbulb appears to go off in his head. He types a flurry of words, and moments later he taps a thumbnail with a photo of someone wearing extremely short shorts, overalls, bright plaid, and a straw hat with the label ‘Harvest Valley Farmer’ at the top of the page.

“That is…” Connor eyes the hot-pants, in particular. “Revealing.”

“Too much?”

“No!” he replies loudly. Too loud, Connor notes. His reaction time should be better than this. “No, I—I’ll try it.”

“Good,” Simon says, seeming quite pleased with himself as well as a touch mischievous. “What about this?”

This time the screen shows a sweet cheerleader outfit with bare midriff and short skirt that Connor can’t imagine is easy to bend over in.

A notification for Hank’s number appears in the corner of his vision.

 **Hank** (5:47 PM)  
_Hows Simon_

Connor chews at the inside of his lip in consideration. He does like the the little tennis shoes that go with the ensemble. That seems comfortable.

“Alright.”

Simon has an almost manic sort of glint to his eyes, and Connor wonders if he should be quite so permissive.

As a second message from Hank pings through their chat _—“Bet his house isn’t as fun as mine”—_ Connor can’t find it in himself to say no to trying on even one of the outfits that Simon asks him to try. Simon seems to be having too much fun for Connor to deter him.

Once they’ve filled Connor’s queue with a frankly ridiculous number of options, Simon peruses a few items for himself. Connor gets the feeling that he has a general idea in mind as almost all of his choices involve a bright, eighties color palette with a moderate amount of skin on display. All very easy to disguise on his way out of the house. Connor wonders how often Simon has had to do that.

There’s one skimpy nurses uniform that Connor isn’t sure Simon ever wears out of the dressing room, but, by the time he gathers the rejected choices to be returned to their place in the store, it’s been ruffled from its original placement on the hanger. His phone receives three consecutive messages from Markus shortly afterward. Simon tries to hide his smile but fails enough that Connor can hazard a guess.

Connor tries on eleven and a half costumes total—he only gets partway into a sexy, robot one piece before he decides that this private joke is far too on the nose, even for him—and ends up liking absolutely none of them. He feels deflated.

He enjoys the idea of showing enough skin to draw the eye but prefers wide yet tasteful strips of it rather than massive swaths. He doesn’t mind stereotypically feminine touches but doesn’t feel comfortable in a skirt and heels. (At least...not yet, he reflects.) He’s alright with an elastic blend clinging to his skin, but latex makes the movement of his joint pieces and chassis feel unnecessarily mechanical. He despises it.  

Simon and Daniel give their input on each option. Or Simon does, listening carefully to all of Connor’s criticisms without pressing. Even ends up giving Connor fresh ideas because of it. Daniel, however, sinks into his seat with arms crossed over his chest, face flushing.

Connor doesn’t know why. Well he _does,_ but he pretends not to. Simon’s conversation with Connor earlier made it clear that Daniel is likely attracted to other boys, and Connor was built to be attractive. It’s a natural reaction. Connor isn’t going to embarrass him by pointing it out. It seems to be causing him enough distress as it is.

In the end, Simon leaves with a couple of separate pieces that he plans to combine with a little something of his own, Daniel pays for some generic pirate costume that Connor doesn’t even think he tried on, and Connor is empty handed.

“Don’t worry too much,” Simon reassures him as they stand in line at the food court. The wide open eatery smells heavily of fried food and sticky sugar that clings to the linoleum tables. He slides his card into the reader, and the cashier pulls a soft pretzel spotted with pepperoni like polkadots and sprinkled with parmesan cheese out from under the heat lamp. “We’ll brainstorm at the house. Online is way easier, anyway.”

The paper crinkles in Simon’s fingers as he takes the pretzel from the hand of the vendor.

“Weren’t you _just_ telling Mom that costumes were something that needed to be tried on?” Daniel snarks. Connor is starting to realize that, 78% of the time, Daniel’s biting or spiteful remarks only aim to get a reaction out of Simon rather than holding any actual malice.

 _“For me.”_ Simon elbows him and Daniel hides a smirk around the straw of his lemonade. He refused a pretzel from Simon earlier even while his stomach growled loud enough for Connor to hear it. “Connor’s way better at knowing what sizes will fit. Right, Con?”

The answer on Connor’s tongue is that his measurements are a set and finite number given the way he was manufactured. That any change would be a scheduled event by Elijah Kamski himself, complete with an update to his internal coding to match.

It’s so close to slipping out of his mouth, so comfortable he is in his current company, that his systems leap into his throat. An alert appears in the corner of his vision.

“I have an eye for it,” Connor replies instead, swallowing a bit of excess of cleaning fluid. Cold and sharp like mint.

Neither of the twins seem to notice anything amiss in his expression.

 **Connor** (6:54 PM)  
_We’re going back to the house now. We shopped for Halloween costumes._

 **Hank** (6:57 PM)  
_Oh ya? Get anything sexy? [Attached is an emoji that is crying with laughter. Connor gets the feeling that Hank doesn’t take his own question very seriously.]_

Connor sighs deeply at this reply. He isn’t paying attention to what Simon and Daniel are bickering about, but his timing must be odd because the two of them eye him curiously.

Back at the Phillip’s house, there’s a tupperware filled with leftover dinner, but the family has otherwise retreated to their respective rooms for the rest of the night. Daniel pops a bowl of zucchini noodles with tomato cream sauce into the microwave while Simon dishes out two helpings for himself and Connor.

“Come on,” Simon says, passing Connor a blue-willow patterned dish with pale orange sauce clinging to curved china. “Let’s go to living room. We can watch something while we eat.”

Simon leads the way down a tasteful hallway where Connor catches glimpses of several family photos in dark, elegant frames along the walls. The living room is as equally stylish. A soft light fills the deeply hued walls and glows against plush cream couches. The illumination isn’t coming from any lamp, however. Instead, the Phillips’ household boasts the largest fish-tank that Connor thinks possible outside of an aquarium. (Not the actual largest, he discovers after a quick scan, but the largest without becoming a touch ridiculous.)

The gentle, blue backlight draws Connor in, instantly distracting him. Simon spots him and smiles as he asks, “Neat, isn’t it?”

Connor agrees, silently, letting his gaze linger for a bit longer before he makes his way back toward the sofa and sits next to Simon. He looks at his bowl for a few moments too long, concern bubbling over the idea of coming home with food in his stomach. Simon—forever concerned about being a good host—notices this as well.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the food.” His face is sad, almost embarrassed.

“No, it’s not that!” Connor replies, panicking in an almost knee jerk reaction. “I was trying to recall what type of fish that is.”

He’s grateful for his processing speed. Connor is at least lucky in this situation not to suffer small gestures of anxiety that could easily give him away. Hank pops in his mind at the thought of micro-expressions before he can stop himself. So much for speed.

“The big one?” Simon asks around a mouthful of noodles. “That’s a Dwarf Gourami. There’s a few more floating around in there.”

“There’s more?” Connor questions. He does little to hide his surprise, and Simon tries just as sparingly to hamper his amusement. He gets on his feet again and sets his dinner on the coffee table before gesturing Connor to follow suite. “I’ll introduce you!”

Taking up almost an entire wall, the tank is filled with colorful coral and rocks. Nooks where Connor can see all sorts of other fish hidden amongst the artificial flotsam. He spots the other gourami, all of them considerably smaller than one one proudly swimming across the glass.

“That one’s Dewey,” Simon tells him, pointing at the big one. He makes sure to not touch the glass as he does so. “Emma named him.”

“Do the others have names?”

“Uh…no. Just Dewey.”

Connor supposes that it makes sense. Dewey stands out from the rest of the gourami. From the other fish in general, really, even the brightly colored bettas and tetras.

“He must be a special fish to get a name,” Connor says. His face glows in the light of the tank.

“It’s not that deep,” Daniel grumbles from where he’s plopped down onto one of the sofas. “Emma got bored.”

“She named him, because he’s the one that fell out of the tank, remember? She was so upset.”

“They’re labyrinth fish,” Connor muses, still watching Dewey with such interest that he’s long forgotten about the dish he’s supposed to be eating. His vision swims with writing and detailed diagrams of the creature’s respiratory system. “They can survive out of water longer than most fish.”

“Everyone loves the fish tank,” Daniel sighs before shoving a forkful of lukewarm zucchini into his mouth, “but I’m always the one who has to clean it.”

While Simon is busy snarking at the exaggeration of this claim, Connor allows his eyes to focus on taking a short video clip of Dewey swimming amongst and through the bright red corals. Ignorant of how fortunate he is and the affection he receives because of his luck. Or how he was built, Connor supposes.

He snaps a couple of photos, too. He’s sure his eyes—built for surveillance, data gathering, and field work—are not meant for soft close ups of tropical fish. For some reason that just makes Connor want to take more. What would Amanda think?

He spots one of the betta fish lurking closer to the small caves and the safety of the shadows. It takes less than half a second for Connor to scan it as a halfmoon giant. Its size is a dead giveaway. Another male. This one has deep shades of red and blue. Connor snaps another photo just as the betta scurries away.

“That’s a mean one.” Simon, now standing next to Connor with an almost empty bowl, tilts his head in the direction of the fish. “Keeps fighting with the other fish.” He snorts at a sudden thought and asks in a playful tone, “Hey maybe we should call it Hank?”

There’s a moment, another that’s far too fast for any human mind to process, where Connor considers diplomatically smiling at Simon’s joke. Following the social queue behind Simon’s chuckle and sharing it with him.

Simon picks up on it almost immediately when Connor declines to do so. He brushes it off with a small wave.

“You’re right,” he concedes just by looking at Connor’s furrowed brow. “That was mean.”

“You should know better, Si,” Daniel calls from the sofa, still slouching. The tines of his fork screech against the inside of his bowl as he scrapes out the last of his noodles. “Connor’s always gonna defend him.”

“Someone has to.” Connor knows better than to take Daniel’s bait. Daniel just shrugs, not looking away from his fork.

“He was a shithead long before you showed up. It’s just catching up to him.”

“Alright. Connor?” Simon redirects, tone cutting through the tension. He takes Connor’s practically untouched meal and starts walking towards the hall. “Let’s go to my room. We can brainstorm more costume ideas together while we eat.”

Connor follows behind Simon and keeps silent as he deals with the dirty dishes. It’s not until they’re back in his room with the door closed that Simon lets out a deep sigh.

“Sorry about Daniel. When he gets into these moods he just...” Simon tries for the longest time to find the words. After a moment, he clicks his tongue into a small, wan smile. “Anyway. Let’s see if the internet can help us find you a dress for the ball.”

They log onto Simon’s desktop—“Dad built the tower with me for my birthday last year. You should play online with me some time.”—and  he clicks through a disastrous array of icons that gives Connor the closest approximation to anxiety. The objective quickly ends up forgotten on Simon’s agenda. Checking his email and IG devolves into scrolling through photos that he wants Connor to see for one obscure reason or another. Not that Connor minds. He wonders if he should have one. He wonders if Amanda would let him.

 _You don’t need her permission,_ a small voice at the back of Connor’s mind whispers rebelliously.    

“Look, North did her nails,” Simon tells him with a note of excitement. His eyes are fixed on the screen where a photo of square cut nails painted in a metallic, shifting shade of blue and purple rest against a bottle of the same shade. The lines are well done but still slightly ragged at the edges, biting ever so slightly over top of her cuticles in only a couple of places. They look nice.

“They look nice,” Connor states aloud.

“That’s what we should do!” Simon turns toward him suddenly, eyes wide before reining his excitement back in a moment of self realization. “I mean...if you don’t mind having your nails painted, that is.”

The task of costume shopping seems forgotten. Connor can’t lose track of his objectives like Simon can. He puts this one down further on the list in favor of Simon’s new train of thought.

On a personal level, Connor has no objections to a little color on his nail. North’s look lovely, and sometimes, late in the evenings when there’s little for him to do, he’s found himself watching videos on nail art. He was fascinated by the perfection put in for something so small and so fleeting. Charmed by the beautiful display of shades.

On a chemical level, however...

“I—” Connor does a quick calculation based on the make up of his synthetic nails and that of a typical varnish. “—wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Hell yeah!” Simon pops up from his computer chair, the seat swiveling lazily in his wake. “My dad would kill me if knew I even had this so we have to take it off before you go home—” Simon reaches up into the highest part of his closet, having to extend to his full height in order to reach the deepest parts. The strain comes through in his voice. “—but it will be fun. We can post pics on my IG.”

He pulls a plastic, black box forward with the tips of his fingers and down into a more firm grip. The top of it has little dots and swipes of polish color as though Simon used it to test their shade. Connor waits on the chair he’d pulled up to the computer desk with his back straight. Simon waves him toward the bed as he settles down on top of the blankets and pops open the lid of the container. His disposition is entirely different. Less guarded.

Inside are a few rows of different colors, some tipped haphazardly from the jostling, and in the base Connor can see a bottle of ethyl acetate resting on it’s side, the lavender contents almost three quarters empty.

This is something Simon must enjoy to a substantial degree and, odds are, is unable to share with many.

“You can pick whatever color you want,” Simon instructs as Connor settles on top of the comforter gingerly. Simon takes out a shade of pale coral that drifts more into pink than orange. ‘Sashimi’ is the name. Connor doesn’t need to scan it. The label is situated neatly on top of the cap.

He inspects his selection. ‘Jennifer’ (a bright, spring green), ‘Marshmallow White’ (the name is self explanatory), ‘Paint the Town Red’ (an old fashioned yet vibrant shade of crimson), ‘Forever Fades Fast’ (a little existential for nail polish, but the color is pretty).

Connor’s eyes linger on a little glass bottle filled with rich black liquid with little grains of silver mixed into the onyx that shimmer in the light as he turns it in his hand. ‘Witchy Woman’.

“Like that one?” Simon asks as he lays out a large rag that he’d had settled down in the bottom of the box. It’s old, so his parents probably didn’t notice when it went missing. Polish clings to the fibers.

“I do.” Connor passes the dark color to Simon’s awaiting palm. “It’s…”

“Classy but fun?” Simon supplies when Connor trails off with a furrowed brow. The bottle makes a soft, repetitive ‘tink’ as he shakes it. Feelings that items or people give Connor are harder to get across. He’s glad that Simon can offer insight.

“Yes,” Connor says with a smile. Simon cracks open the lid of the varnish. “That.”

“It suits you.”

Connor takes it as enough of a compliment for his smile to broaden.

Simon takes his hand, isolating Connor’s thumb first. His grip has a slight tremor to it—all humans’ do—but he works around the uncontrollable movement with practiced ease. The edges don’t come out professional, but it’s a near thing. In fact, Connor isn’t sure that anyone other than him would even notice. Simon comments on how neat and smooth Connor’s nails are, and Connor lets him believe that it’s due to vigilant manicuring.

“So,” Simon starts around the time that he reaches the ring finger of the first hand. His eyes remain fixed on Connor’s nail, face inches from the hand he’s working on. Connor thinks to make a comment about fumes, but he’s pretty sure that it’s just a defense protocol against such close inspection. He overrides it. “Hank, huh?”

The name distracts him from any leftover or programmed worries altogether. He sighs deeply.

“That bad?” Simon sounds sympathetic, but Connor can read the knowing underpinning in the question.

“He’s infuriating,” Connor states, frustration getting the best of him.

Simon bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing and jostling the pace of his brush. “I guess you don’t mean that the same way as North or Daniel.”

Connor doesn’t reply. He watches the smooth application of the thick liquid as it spreads across his nail with a furrow in his brow.

“I know you like him.” Simon looks up through his lashes and then back down. “It’s alright.”

“You didn’t seem alright with him before.”

Simon shrugs a little and dips the applicator back for a fresh gob of black. “I can be wrong.”

Humans are bad at admitting when they might not be altogether correct. It speaks to Simon’s credit that he’s able to declare it so offhandedly.

“He likes you, too,” Simon tells him, and Connor feels a familiar irritation bubbling under his chassis.

“I’m aware.” His voice sounds more annoyed than he means for it to, but it’s clear that it isn’t directed at Simon. “That’s at least eighty-six percent of the problem.”

“You _could_ make the first move, you know?”

“I know,” Connor says. He hopes that it comes out more confident than he feels. The look that Simon tosses him over his work tells him otherwise.

“I get it. First times are scary.”

Connor wants to make a comment about virginity being a social construct, but he knows that isn’t what Simon means. He’s talking about something less specific. The newness of having never approached someone in that context. Having nothing to compare it to. Lacking the confidence that comes with experience.

Connor isn’t supposed to be susceptible to those downfalls. Programmed practice. Elijah had used those words once.

Simon gives the polish a quick second coat and finishes the final nail with a flourish.

Connor brings his hands closer to his face, turning them over for inspection. Drying should be complete in ten minutes and forty-three seconds. He likes the dark color against his pale skin. The shimmer is a little harder to see with them still being wet, but the look of it is already pleasing.

“Okay, first off, we’re setting you up with an IG, so you can post a pic of yours, too.” Connor looks up at Simon in surprise, and Simon’s posture goes a bit more timid in response. He tacks on a courteous, “If you want.”

“I think—” Connor looks back at the drying veneer of his nails without knowing why. There’s nothing new to the look of them quite yet. “I think I would like that.”

Simon’s cheerful demeanor returns as he puts the small glass bottle back into the box. “Good. Start thinking of a handle while those dry. Also,” Simon plants his hands on the center of the bed animatedly, “I think I have an idea for your costume.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Simon’s grin is wicked. “And if you like it, I think it will _definitely_ get Hank’s attention.”

And, well.

Connor can’t say that he isn’t intrigued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️


	9. Part I, October 13th-28th 2028 (Hank)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting some stuff with Hank done before party time hits!

**October 13th, 2028**

Hank pulls into the Anderson garage with moments to spare before the sprinkle of rain turns into a downpour. He’d noticed the looming clouds as he pulled out of his therapist’s pitted parking lot, heavy and dark as they eased themselves closer. Hank’s grateful to been spared the drive in such inclement weather. He’s too drained from his session to deal with that shit. He shrugs his jacket off dismissively and shuts the door behind him. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done with the outside world for the day.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets an excited Kurgan with the same enthusiasm and scritches behind the ears that he always does. He looks around the silent house as Kurgan’s tags jingle under his ministrations. “You alone?”

There’s no response when he calls out. Another small blessing. It’s nice to have the house to himself at times, and, as much as they love each other, every Anderson would agree with the sentiment.

After taking Kurgan out to do his business—and thank god the ground isn’t wet enough for mud to cling to his paws—Hank goes for the pantry to grab himself a couple of cookies before sauntering over to the sofa, dropping down onto it with unceremonious laziness.

It was a good session today.  Hank can always tell when he feels as worn out as he does now. Like he’s run a marathon in the rain. Like he’s done a hard day’s labor in iron boots. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he’d been so responsive the first time around. If he’d actually shown up to those sessions instead of getting drunk or whatever other self destructive thing he did to cope.

“I just wanna get this shit figured out,” he’d told Dr. Ward. Dennis. His ever patient therapist.

“I’m happy to see you this motivated, Hank.” Hank remembers him giving an earnest smile. Dennis seemed relieved for him. “Does this have something to do with the basketball team?”

“Huh? Oh, no. I mean, in a way, I guess…”

He feels the same now as he did back then. The question had stunned him, the same way it would missing step after a long climb. It’s not that he wasn’t expecting the question. He’s quite open with Dennis and had mentioned to him his desire to try out for the team again.

Hank just expected the question to be...different.

He expected it to be about Connor.

He’s not stupid. He knows better than to place his emotions on the shoulders of any one person. He knows some people his age might not even think of that shit, but he’s had it hammered into his head enough by his parents that he’d have to be willfully ignorant not to at least be aware. It’s just that Hank knows having Connor around has motivated him in a multitude of ways, and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it.

He rubs his face with a deep groan that causes Kurgan to lift his head from his spot near Hank’s feet. Always attentive, that one.

“Don’t worry, boy. I’m just a fucking mess is all,” Hank bemoans, patting Kurgan’s big head. Hank sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He distracts himself by watching the first mindless video he can find. He plays a compilation from some old, comedy show with all the hallmarks of the early aught to mid teen filming, and Hank’s eyes start to feel heavy before it even reaches the halfway mark. He’s out like a light before the video is even over.

He wakes with an ungraceful snort to the sound of a car door slamming. Luckily, Sally doesn’t hear him before she’s through the door. Kurgan’s already there to greet her.

“Hello, my beauty,” Sally coos.

“‘Hello’ to you, too,” Hank chimes in from the sofa. He lifts his head with a cheeky smile. Sally rolls her eyes. She greets him warmly all the same and makes her way to the lazy chair before even peeling off her jacket. She heaves a deep sigh that says it all.

“Long day?” Hank ask, sitting up. His face still feels warm and swollen with sleep.

“Longer than the last one. They just keep getting longer,” she bemoans. “How about you? Good sesh?”

“Draining but getting there.” Hank doesn’t have the energy to go into details.

“Say no more. Nice to see you stick it out.” Sally gives an honest smile for a brief moment before the moment gets too emotional for the two of them to navigate.

She heads to the kitchen, peeling off her outer layers while Hank grabs for his phone once more. He rotates through the same extensions in boredom until he reaches IG. He rarely posts anymore, but he can never stray too far from browsing.

It doesn’t take long for Hank to find Simon’s update.

Simon’s nails are lacquered in familiar shades that Hank’s seen him post several times before. A soft pink glints under the camera this time, much simpler, but, as always, Hank agrees that the shade suits him. Next to them, in stark contrast, are another set of nails painted a shade of black with glitter that shimmers like stardust under the flash. Underneath the photo, surrounded by an obnoxious amount of sparkling emojis, Simon writes:

 _Getting inspired for Halloween!_ _  
_ _EDIT: follow @paper_unicorn!!! His name is Connor and he’s new to IG so go and say hello! [The message ends with the newest version of the unicorn emoji to come out last month.]_

“Oh fuck,” Hank utters, letting out a gasp as he takes it all in.

“What’s up?” Sally calls from the kitchen.

Hank’s not listening. Clicking on the username, he’s led to a sparse IG account. There’s only two photos posted so far, an obvious sign of how new it is. Neither of them feature Connor. Not even his icon shows his face. The first photo is already familiar, the glittering black nails featured prominently in different angles and close ups. Hank can see up close just how perfect the work is. The other is is a video of fish. Does Simon have fish? Hank wonders at how he never knew that fact.

“Connor’s got an IG account, ” Hank mumbles when he notices Sally, unanswered, has walked up to him in curiosity. He doesn’t look up from his phone, too busy getting swept up by paranoia at the state of his own account as his finger hovers over the ‘follow’ button. Like an unannounced (though not unwanted) visitor dangerously close to seeing the messy state that he lives in.

Which is par for the course with Connor, now that he thinks about it.

“Oo drama,” Sally says from where she’s looped around to the arm of the sofa and bent over Hank’s shoulder. He fights the urge to tuck the screen of his phone away from her prying eyes. It’s not like he has anything to hide. “That color looks good. He has nice hands.”

“You’re fucking gross,” Hank tells her with that specific sort of bite that he saves only for his sisters. He sounds suitably disgusted despite thinking something near identical two weeks ago when Connor tugged the strings of Hank’s hoodie until they were even. The honesty coming from Sally, of all people, still freaks him out.

“Shut up, brat.” She shoves at his shoulder, pressing him deeper into the plush backing of the couch. “Christ, I’m just trying to compliment your future husband.”

She barely even sounds like she’s teasing.

A spark, nervous and hot, jolts in Hank’s chest at the tease. “He’s not—we’re not like that.”

“Sure,” she replies easily, eyes rolling. Not that Hank sees it but he can hear the expression in her tone of voice. _There’s_ that sarcasm he knows and loves. He’s not proud enough to think that he can hide a crush from a sister who’s seen him during his worst hang ups.

A crush is one thing, though. Even a crush that might be reciprocated.

(Or, hell, maybe Connor is just tactical and touch starved, and Hank is the asshole who reads into every little show of friendship or kindness. Shit.)

The point is that Connor is already elbows deep in Hank’s problems as his friend. He doesn’t deserve being pulled through...all of this. Especially when, if Connor does like him back, he probably just imprinted on Hank like some baby duck. It’s really the only explanation.

Still, he finds himself navigating back to his own, humble IG profile self-consciously before he’ll allow himself to press that follow button. His last image post was during the summer. It’s of Greg and Pedro with smoke in the air and weed paraphernalia displayed prominently on the Kayes’ coffee table. The lighting is dark. There’s a glare. All of them, even him, clearly think they look badass. The one before that is a black screen with edgy lyrics posted over top of it.

He doesn’t groan out loud, but there’s a groan in his heart.

“God you were so cringey last year,” Sally announces for him. The weight of her braid knocks into Hank’s shoulder as she stands up.

“No one says ‘cringey’ anymore,” Hank retorts without denying that he _was._ “You just sound old.”

Sally doesn’t even acknowledge him as she walks back into the kitchen. If he didn’t know her better, he would think she hadn’t heard him at all.

Hank swipes through his pics from the last year, deleting nearly all of them at the thought of Connor’s eyes skimming across them. The evidence of his former life bleeds steadily back into the gridwork of photos. Friends that are as good as strangers now. Places that he rarely visits. Thoughts he’s glad aren’t as present anymore. Boy, was he angry...

There’s even a couple with Markus, almost exclusively in his basketball or post-game wear and usually a single face amidst an array. They were never close by any means, but they’d talked before, primarily only when they’d ended up seated side-by-side on the bench or left alone at the table at whatever restaurant was chosen for post-game celebration. It was always good natured but not exactly as chummy as it’s gotten lately.

There’s no evidence of Cole scattered among photos. Hank had trashed all that he could find a month after the crash. A blessing and gaping regret.

The color of his profile gains a certain light, shades far more saturated, by the time he’s finished. There may be an obvious gap in his timeline, but Connor is smart as a whip. No doubt he’ll figure it out without having to ask. There’s plenty of Kurgan photos to keep him entertained.

In the kitchen, he can hear pots clanging around as Sally fishes something out of the cabinet. He wonders if he should flee before the inevitable fallout ensues.

Connor already has several likes on his fish video and more on the one of his lovely nails. North made an impassioned, capslocked expression of how much she loves them while Josh left a more gentle message of approval. Of course, Connor is a natural social media butterfly.

Even Daniel has written, “cute,” which is...surprisingly vocal for him, actually. Unless it’s to poke and prod at his twin brother, Daniel is typically a lurker. Not that Hank even thought about it before now.

Something heavy and unfair settles in Hank’s gut before he pushes it away.

He types out his own reply, twice, hitting the post button before he can doubt himself.

_Rock out. Glitter looks good on you_

The fish video has only garnered a reply from Simon.

_omg i didnt even see u film this one [He ends with three amazed emojis.]_

The quality is better than Hank is used to from phones, its frame far wider than is typically set in those types of cameras. He figures Connor must have used the video cropping tool that most teens ignore when editing. The view moves slowly from a large fish with shimmering blue scales cut through by tangerine orange to a larger version of those mean betta that Hank once tried putting in with his goldfish when he was nine.

He had only thought that perhaps they might be lonely in their seperate little bowls of water and brightly colored pebbles. He woke up the next morning to Coin Purse floating on the water’s crystalline surface as the betta fish waved out at Hank with its fins like purple silk behind the glass.

There’s a metaphor in there that Hank isn’t willing to parse. He comments with the fish emoji, Connor’s favorite, and puts away his phone, doing his best to not think about Connor replying.

At dinner, he takes a photo of his barely edible meal with blackened edges and pale, sickly coloring. He posts it on IG with the caption, “R.I.P.”

.

**October 25th, 2028**

The first, shrill bell echoes out, signalling the end of lunch period, and as if on cue Hank’s stomach feels tight and twisted with nervous energy. He looks up at the clock reflexively, looming like some angry, ominous vulture. Connor seems to notice immediately.

“Are you alright?” Connor asks.

“Maybe I should do this some other time,” Hank confides glumly as Connor readies his backpack on his shoulders.

“I’m not going to force something you don’t want to do, but honestly, what’s the worst Coach Jimmy could say?” Hank opens his mouth to answer, but Connor cuts him off, denying Hank the chance to sass himself out of an honest answer. “Legally, Hank.”

“He can say ‘no’?” Hank says as he shrugs on his bag. “He can say, ‘You already fucked up once; screw off’?”

Connor seems to consider this answer as floods of students fill the the halls around them, the afternoon energy making their flow sluggish.

“Coach Jimmy is a good teacher, and I don’t think he’d be much of a coach if he didn’t have keen observation skills. I’m sure he’s taken note of your improvement these last few months.”

Hank shrugs. “Why would he care?”

“You were on his team, Hank, and you’re still his student. Of course he cares,” Connor tells him, sounding soft but almost defensive with how obvious it is to him. “I’m eighty-seven percent certain that he won’t turn you down.”

Hank lets out a huff, Connor’s joke lightening his mood enough to distract from the ever approaching entrance to the classroom. Connor doesn’t usually walk with him this far.

“Any idea how to get that extra thirteen percent?”

“‘Please’ always helps.” Connor doesn’t even bother trying to hide his little grin when he knows he’s being funny, because Connor doesn’t doubt himself. Hank wonders what that must be like. “It’s probably scarier in your head.”

“That shit’s easy to say from the outside,” Hank grumbles under his breath. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the door. The second bell’s about to ring, and Hank has spent most of his lunch break fretting and rehearsing. He would be panicking if it weren’t for Connor just…being there.

“True but I’ll still be outside when you get out. Whatever he says, you won’t deal with it alone,” Connor tells him, and Hank knows Connor means it. Even though his class is quite a ways down the hall, Hank knows that when he walks out Connor will be there in that very spot. Clutching the strap of his backpack and giving him a bright smile.

“I won’t know if I don’t try, right?” He steadies himself with a long sigh. He hopes his grin comes off more confident than he feels.

“Exactly,” Connor agrees. He doesn’t break eye contact, his smile is wide but tight lipped.

Hank doesn’t have much time to dwell on…that—the glimmer in Connor’s eye, the urge to reach out at touch the turn of his lips—before the second bell rattles through the school.

The last of the students pour into their dreaded classrooms, Hank trailing behind. He manages to take a seat mere moments before Coach Jimmy walks in with his usual messy handful of books and class notes. He drops them on the desk and gets the smartboard booted up before the class truly begins in earnest.

Hank does his best to stay focused throughout. The last thing he needs right now is start off with Coach Jimmy already fed up with his shit. His mind keeps veering towards the end of class, though. Rehearsing a variety of ways that he might ask Coach Jimmy in his head.

_Please always helps._

The thought of Connor distracts Hank, lips twitching into smile. It calms him enough to stay focused. Eighty seven percent, huh?

.

Hank makes sure to reach the teacher’s desk as soon the class is let out. Coach Jimmy hasn’t gone very far into putting the fifth period papers away, but he does stop when he sees Hank approach.

“Hey, Anderson,” Coach Jimmy starts. He’s a man of few words for the most part. The respect that he earns with the few that he does use causes students to admire him and fear his disappointment in equal measure. A disappointment that his voice seems to drip with every time that he talks to Hank these days.

“Hey, um…” Hank’s mind goes blank. “Could I talk to you for a sec?”

“Better make it quick or you’ll be late for class,” he says lazily as he returns to shuffling his papers.

“I was—I was hoping to—hoping you might give me a chance to be back on the team again?” It all comes out as word vomit, but at least Hank gets its all out there. Hank’s not sure that he wasn’t expecting this. Coach meets his eye with a frown before Hank finishes, “Please?”

Hank never thought for an instant that he could want this again. He’d burned that bridge so violently that the whole school knows of his self inflicted fall from grace. Lately, though, he’s felt some inklings of confidence to allow himself good things. Or things that aren’t destructive, at least.

“Why do you think I should?” Jimmy asks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Given the shit you pulled?”

“I messed up.” Hank can feel his heart racing,  a jittery energy under his skin at the rejection he envisions in Coach Jimmy’s eyes. “And I want to do right by you and by the team. And I just...I just miss it.”

Hank’s sure he’s already fucked up, because it takes a long time for Coach to say anything before he finally breaks his silence. He says, “You know I can’t just give you your spot back, right?”

“Let me try out!” Hank blurts, the words bursting out before he has time to think about them.  

“You will. With the freshman. This Friday.”

Of all the imagined scenarios, he can’t say this was one of them. The regret starts to settle inside his ribcage as the students for Coach’s next period trickle in. A girl with a high ponytail eyes Hank warily as she shuffles by with her gold sequined backpack. Her eyebrows furrow into a glare that Hank isn’t sure he deserves. She’s a freshman and wasn’t even around for his...fucking meltdown. There’s plenty to hate him for, but she should get to know him first. Shit. He watches her with a pointed scowl as she passes.

“The freshman? Really?” he asks with a grimace in his voice.

“Yeah,” Coach Jimmy replies with a wide, blindingly white smile. He leans back into his chair with his arms across his chest. “Should be entertaining.”

Hank is sure he deserves this. Still doesn’t like it, though.

The warning bell rings overhead, and Hank can’t be sure if his groan is in reaction to it or to Coach Jimmy. Doesn’t really matter either way does it?

“I think your friend’s waiting on you,” Coach dismisses, gesturing over to where Connor is hovering near the door. He’s talking to an enthusiastic student that’s a year or so below them with a polite expression on his face as she beams up at him in a metaphoric halo of sparkles. Connor can have that effect sometimes.

“Yaknow, you don’t have to be late to class for me,” Hank says, cutting smoothly into their conversation.

“I wanted to make sure that everything went okay,” Connor replies in lieu of scolding him for being rude to the random sophomore or junior or whatever-the-fuck who is attempting, unsuccessfully, to chat him up. Granted, Connor doesn’t usually pull the prim and proper shit unless he’s being intentionally bratty.

“Yeah, it went uh.” Hank mulls over the idea of tryouts for half a second. He supposes sucking up his pride isn’t the worst thing that could have happened. “Good?”

“See?” Connor tells him with enviable self assurance. That confidence would be borderline cocky if Connor wasn’t so cute. “I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Hank doesn’t know if he agrees with his definition of ‘bad’, but the way that Connor peers up at him has those tendrils of frustration slowly unfurling from around his throat. The girl that had been talking to Connor deflates. Tucks tail and retreats into Jimmy’s classroom.

Hank send her off with a little wave that she doesn’t see.

Yeah. He gets it.

.

**October 27th, 2028**

Friday rolls around far quicker than Hank would have liked if he’s being perfectly honest. He feels his heels digging in the nearer to the end of the day that he gets, stomach tightening and leaping whenever he isn’t diligent enough in distraction. Time seems to be as all over the place as he is. Should he have warmed up more? How many kids are gonna be there? Is Coach just fucking with him?

“Stop worrying so much,” Connor whispers to him near the end of psychology class. It’s close enough to the bell that the teacher probably won’t even scold him if she notices. Hank settles back into his seat with a sigh.

“Seriously, though,” North speaks up behind Hank. Brash. Not nearly as quiet. “You’re built like a brick shit house, Hank. I’m...actually more worried about the greasy, little freshmen.”

“Yeah, try not to punch anyone, Anderson,” Daniel tosses in the mix, and Hank would take it a lot more seriously if North didn’t roll her eyes in response.

Hank ignores Daniel. “I’m not worried about being able to pass a ball over some ten year old’s heads.”

“It’s the ladders, isn’t it?” North asks with the knowing look of someone on a sports team herself and all too familiar with the dreaded running exercise. Hank can feel himself wincing instinctively at the very idea.

“Shit, I forgot about ladders.” What the hell is he doing? He’s going to fucking die.

North has the decency to look at least a little bit sympathetic.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Connor asks, sweet and soft as his eyes like he’s pretending that only Hank can hear him.

 _Yes,_ Hank thinks. Determined. Strong in his conviction. _Yes, yes, yes._

“You don’t have to,” he says out loud, meek in his delivery.

Connor gives him a probing look, and thank god for all those smarts behind the brown of Connor’s eyes. He always sees through all of Hank’s pretenses.

(There’s something else there, too, now that Hank is looking. Just for a moment. A...shine? Like a smooth, red scale just past the pupil. Hank’s brow furrows slightly before Connor speaks with that voice that sounds blanketed in a soft piece of cloth.)

“It’s not any trouble. I can study on the sidelines.”  

Hank doesn’t know whether Connor actually plans on working through homework or if he’s just soothing Hank’s pride, but he’s not going to argue it. By his tone, Hank can tell Connor has made up his mind anyway. At least he’ll have someone to watch his gym bag. Fuck knows what would happen to it in the men’s lockers.

The sound of rubber soles squeaking on the laminated flooring is already echoing in the high rafters of the gymnasium by the time Connor and Hank push through the metal doors. Hank leaves Connor next to where the bleachers are folded back while Hank changes. He doesn’t have his jersey anymore so a ratty, old t-shirt will have to serve.

When he returns, Connor is leaned back just to the right of the ‘DP’ design in the wall of plastic chairs, looking like a strange stain of clean in the middle of the dingy, decades old gym around him. Or maybe the stain is everything else. That halo of sparkles comes to mind once more.

His phone is held horizontally in his hands, and Hank gets the impression that he’s taking a photo of his shoes.

“It’s weird you only got the IG account, you know?” Hank says by way of distraction. He sets his red gym bag on the floor near Connor’s feet, just out of line of the camera’s scope.

“I don’t need another one.” Connor doesn’t startle. Connor never startles. He’s very aware of his surroundings, Hank has noticed, to an almost unnerving degree. His fingers slide across the screen of his phone without looking up, scrolling through filters. “Do you think I should have more?”

“Not if you don’t want, I guess,” Hank replies, suddenly feeling a guilty for the tinge of judgement in his tone. “Just used to everyone having like...twenty. And you like IG so much…”

Connor shrugs and then looks up from the glassy screen with a soft smile. “This is enough.” He holds the cell up in front of him, aiming it toward Hank. “Smile.”

Hank doesn’t smile. He makes a face like a wince that is very obviously forced, his lips just barely twitching in an effort to contain any hint of enjoyment. Wouldn’t want to encourage him.   

“Delete that,” he orders, pointing back at Connor as he heads onto the basketball court. Connor doesn’t seem to pay him much attention.

Hank tries his best to ignore all the fresh, young eyes staring at him like some lumbering giant as he makes his way across the basketball court, taking his place amongst the row of rookies. Instinctively, Hank steals a glance in Connor’s direction before he hears the sharp, nostalgic sound of Coach Jimmy’s whistle.

It’s simple things at first. Warm ups and stretches. Jumping jacks. (Fuck whoever invented those, by the way.) Hank can feel his muscles burning already, though. It’s no surprise, of course. It’s not like he paid much attention to his body after his expulsion, but he wonders if the amount of sweating he’s doing should be embarrassing. Or the whole thing, as a matter of fact.

For comfort or for reassurance—Hank isn’t sure which—he steals a glance at Connor once again. Connor’s small, eager wave of acknowledgement mixed with a smile that Hank can see from across the court almost throws him off his rhythm, but it’s nice to know he’s still there. Rooting for him while Coach Jimmy drags him through the proverbial mud.

He can almost picture North’s (near) sympathetic expression when it’s time for the dreaded ladders. Most of the freshmen’s eagerness drops dramatically as Coach Jimmy doles out instructions.

Baseline to five foot line and back. Baseline to free throw and back. Baseline to half court and back. Baseline to opposite free throw and back. Baseline to opposite five foot line and back. Baseline to baseline and back. That’s _one._

God knows Coach Jimmy isn’t going to give them any pity.

Hank pushes through the familiar burn in his legs. He knows he’ll be praying for death tomorrow, but even if he fails, he can say he tried which is more than anyone has gotten out of him in a long time. He remembers the way Coach Jimmy looked at Hank every time he’d let him down. Particularly after the scuffle (okay, fine, full on _fight_ ) early in the season that got Hank officially kicked off the team.

Jimmy was one of the last to give up on Hank. He got closer than most to pulling Hank back from that darkness, but Hank was a stubborn ass. Feeling so justified in his anger that he chose it over one of the only things in school that he genuinely loved.

As they kick off scrimmaging, Hank realizes how much he _still_ loves it. How much he misses it. His heart beating against his chest. The sound of sneakers on the court. Coach Jimmy’s voice booming above all else with short, clear commands. While it’s true that the freshmen are hardly competition, he feels himself getting back into the swing of things. He does try to go easy on them as much as he can without making himself look lacking. He remembers being knocked over more than once back then. Hell, he even remembers Markus helping him up once. Feels like a lifetime ago.

Hank doesn’t have time to reminisce for to long. He has to keep his head in the game. It feels good to have no time to think of anything except his next move and get out of his own head for once.

Before he knows it, Coach Jimmy gives the whistle to signal the end of the tryouts. As tough as it was, Hank had no idea time had gone by so fast. He can see many of the students desperate to get the hell out of there, some looking like they’ve been through the ringer. Others look like they’ve barely even broken a sweat, and for a second Hank feels foolish for trying as the worry starts to creep back in. Sure, he gave it his all, but that doesn’t mean Coach Jimmy’s going to put his name on the list.

Hank finds himself still glad that he did it. Still happy that Connor kept _urging_ him to do it.

At the thought of him, Hank looks back toward the bleachers and gives Connor a wave as he makes his way towards his friend whose grin seems brighter and warmer the closer Hank gets.

“You were great out there Hank!” Connor cheers without a hint of irony. Not one.

“You don’t have to kiss my ass,” he grouses as he takes the squeeze water bottle that Connor offers him, plastic wet with condensation. Connor’s eyes are fixed somewhere around Hank’s throat before darting up to Hank’s eyes. He looks adorably affronted but quickly adjusts his expression into an equally charming pout.

“I’m not. You’re fit. You think fast, and your shooting technique, while rough, is still at least forty percent more accurate than the rest of the candidates. Coach Jimmy would be wasting talent if he didn’t pick you.” The seriousness in Connor’s voice makes Hank hope that he’s still sporting his basketball blush to hide his smitten one. He smiles, albeit bashfully.

“There you go, spouting percentages again,” Hank jokes, because there’s no way he can handle the way Connor so adamantly takes his side. No matter what, it seems. “Thanks, Con. Does make me feel a little hopeful.”

“Does that mean you’re glad you came?” Connor’s tone is innocent. Hank’s been around too many smart ass teenagers to not hear just a hint of pride.

“Let’s just say, I’m lucky to have someone who’s on my ass as much as you.” Hank doesn’t think much of his wording until he hears it out loud. Connor must be just as aware of the possible entendre. His unblinking gaze says it all. Hank clears his throat. “Alright I’m gonna uh…I’m gonna change.”

“I’ll be here,” Connor replies. Another smile, smaller this time. Not sad but something in the back of Hank’s mind starts to get that familiar itch like he’s said something wrong. He grabs his bag and makes his way to the locker room.

Hank rushes through as much as he can. He’s acutely aware of how long he’s making Connor wait before he’s out the door again, freeing his hair from the messy bun he’d tied up moments before the tryouts. Stray curls still stick to the back of his neck where the sweat is still drying. He wonders if he should get it cut to make it easier during games. Then again that’s all up to Coach Jimmy now.

“I took some action shots of you, by the way,” Connor says as Hank sidles up next to him.

“You fucking serious?” Hank’s shock comes out more aggressive than he intends. Then again, he wouldn’t think Connor could be so cruel.

Connor rolls his eyes—actually fucking _rolls his eyes_ —without looking up from his cell. “I didn’t post them, Hank. I wouldn’t do that without asking first.”

RIght. Of course he wouldn’t, Hank thinks before realizing how few people actually _do._

“They probably all look like shit,” Hank replies immediately, brushing off any feelings of being chagrined. He peeks at Connor’s phone over his shoulder in a way that Hank knows isn’t as inconspicuous as he intends.

Connor volleys back immediately, “They don’t.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Hank snatches the cell as Connor passes it to him. He holds it down at his side for a moment as he pushes the heavy, metal door of the gym ajar for Connor to pass through.

“Anderson!” Coach Jimmy’s voice echoes from behind them before he has a chance to follow Connor’s lead. Hank freezes on the spot, almost Pavlovian in his reaction. When his head turns in that direction, Jimmy has his eyes trained down on his clipboard. The cloth headband that he’d used to hold his dreads back is hanging lazily around his neck. “Practice starts the first Monday of November.”

Hank blinks stupidly a couple of times, the cavernous gymnasium unnaturally silent between them. It smells like rubber.

“I...don’t have to wait?” he asks after a moment.

“Nah.” Coach Jimmy looks up at him with a stoic expression. Even from so far away, Hank’s nerves are put on edge. “Just wanted to see if you’d show. Don’t let me down.”

“I’ll try not to,” Hank says automatically. “I mean, I _won’t._ I just—”

Connor tugs at his sleeve, clearly attempting to save him from his chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome.

“Uh, thanks, Coach!” Hank is able to squeeze out as the door shuts behind them. There’s a rush of adrenaline and endorphins running through his veins that he doesn’t even try to hold back, making his whole body light. Like a balloon only tethered to the ground by the smug energy radiating off of Connor.

“Yeah, alright, I’m glad I came,” Hank admits gruffly. He tries to tamp down on a pervasive smile that’s been teasing at the corners of his lips since the moment that the metal door clicked shut. He passes Connor’s phone back to him without looking at the screen. “You can post a couple photos or whatever. I better not look like a clown.”

“There’s only so much I can do with a filter, Hank,” Connor quips with a deadpan set to his eyebrows.

Hank retaliates with a playful shove to Connor’s shoulder. “Brat.”

The halls of the high school are eerily quiet with all of the students flushed out into the world. Their shoes echo loudly on the tiles and most of the rooms are blanketed in darkness. He knows from experience that detention is probably still going—though that’s usually in one of the classes a floor up—and they pass the janitor on the way toward the main exit. It feels a bit like a place between places when it’s like this. Liminal spaces, he thinks he’s heard it called.

Luckily, that also means the parking lot is mostly empty. Much easier to navigate this way.

“Are you coming to the Halloween party tomorrow?” Connor asks as Hank passes him the bright, blue helmet that’s been worn far more by Connor in the last couple months than by it’s actual owner. Looks way cuter on him too.

Hank shrugs. “I gotta celebrate somehow, right? Be nice to see what it’s like when I’m actually invited.” He pulls his own helmet over his head and snaps the shield into place before throwing a leg over his bike. “Who’s driving you?”

“I was going to ask if you might.” Connor slides in behind him. He never uses the passenger handles, looping his arms around Hank’s middle every time. Wherever they touch spins Hank’s nerves into a frenzy. he is very nearly getting used to the entire length of Connor’s body plastered against his back.

“I think I could swing that,” Hank agrees automatically, too high on his little victory to think of all the reasons that he shouldn’t. Well...mostly. “But if your mom starts cleaning her shotgun, you gotta give me a heads up or something.”

“She doesn’t keep guns in the house. At least...I don’t think so.”

Hank drops Connor off in front of the house without finding himself watched by Sentry Amanda while he waits for Connor to give his customary wave down from his tower window. Hank worries about him up there sometimes. All alone. He tries not to.

When he get home, Wade is the only one around for once. He’s on the sofa in his lazy day clothes, playing a video game on the big, living room television. Must have been a slow day. Or maybe he’s coming down with a cold. Either way, he clearly has no intention of thinking beyond simulation today.

“Good day at school?” he asks distractedly as Hank passes behind him toward the stairs.

“Back on the basketball team,” Hank tells him. He doesn’t wait for any follow up as he takes the steps two at a time. He even thinks he hears his dad give a ‘wait, what?’ as he crests the landing, but he continues into his room regardless.

He drops his bag down next to his desk and flops onto the bed, opening up IG on his phone as he holds it up over his face. He has a notification for a post from _@paper_unicorn_.

Connor posted two of the photos that he’d taken in the gym from what Hank can tell. One of Hank faking as though he’s wincing from a flash—and looking goofy as hell—before the tryouts and one of him dribbling down the court. Hank is willing to admit that they aren’t as bad as he’d feared. Connor is good at getting a nice shot and knows how to apply edits so it doesn’t look quite as cheap as some others might.

Connor’s additional comments are usually very practical. Simple. Not as many emojis as those that he scatters throughout his texts with Hank.

_@knightsofthemetalocalypse at basketball tryouts_

There are more comments than Hank had expected. Markus has even replied. At the bottom of the chain is something written by a username that Hank recognizes as Pedro’s. It’s the first he’s heard from him since that day in the cafeteria.

_u back on the team?_

So, yeah. Maybe not the worst day in the world.

.

**October 28th, 2028**

The Halloween party doesn’t exactly creep up on Hank, but after not giving it a second thought for weeks, he suddenly finds himself feeling something close to nervous.

Not that he should, he tells himself. It’s not like...a date or anything. He sprays himself with one of the better deodorants that he has in his his side of the bathroom cabinets and moves to rummage around his room.

He’s fresh from the shower, too busy looking for the costume he got last year to worry as he lets his wet hair drip along his path. He’s still quite proud of it, but it’s not like he wore it any other time. Now he’s stuck digging around blindly, highly aware that he has to head out soon.

Hank doesn’t want to be late. He can just picture Connor’s small head tilt whenever he’s kept waiting. It’s cute, but Hank doesn’t want the party to get off at a bad start. He figures Connor hasn’t been to many, (or any, probably), and god knows it’s been a long time since he’s actually been invited to one of Markus’s parties.

“Fuckin’, finally,” he grumbles to himself as he finds what he’s looking for, reaching for the neatly folded t-shirt hiding behind the ugly Christmas sweaters. He airs it with a few shakes before donning it and inspecting the results in the mirror.

He reads the words ‘this is my Halloween costume’ emblazoned in bright, orange letters on black cotton. It gets a laugh out of people and saves him the effort of, well, making an effort. In hindsight, perhaps it might have been neat to do something this year. He throws on his leather jacket instead of giving it more thought.

He’s barely closed his bedroom door when he hears the familiar creak from Sally’s room.

“Hey.” She’s peeking through now, hand on her phone once again. “Meg’s on the phone. What’s this about you joining the basketball team?”

“Coach let me try out, and I got in,” he tells her all at once, hoping that it sounds offhanded. As nonchalant as he acts, he still feels giddy every time that he thinks about it.

“Good for you.” Sally doesn’t try to hide the joy in her voice and for a moment it takes Hank aback. She adds, “Meg says congratulations and don’t fuck it up.”

“I didn’t say that!” Meg yells, her tinny voice distant but loud enough to have Hank scoffing as he makes his way down the stairs.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Where you going?” Sally calls down the landing.

“Party!” He smiles up at her and continues down the stairs, pleased as punch knowing that both sisters heard his reply. It’ll give them something to talk about.

He makes a clean getaway, taking the smaller side streets to avoid traffic if he’s going to make it on time. It beats speeding. He keeps his thoughts on the corners and the turns instead of what Connor could possibly be wearing or all the photographic hints on his IG.

Connor has become very good at IG very quickly, and Hank would call him a menace if he didn’t enjoy seeing the things Connor likes to post about.

The Stern household is dark when Hank pulls up along the curb. He sees a faint glow from the main hall, but otherwise, Connor’s room—shining high in his tower—is the only beacon of life. Hank dismounts his bike before getting his phone out of his pocket.

 **Hank** **  
** _Getaway vehicle is waiting outside_

 **Connor** **_  
_ ** _That never gets old._

Hank can almost see the deadpan delivery as he reads the text. He looks up to see Connor’s familiar shape at the window giving him a small wave. Hank returns the gesture, noticing Connor reach for something pointy as he heads out the bedroom door.

Connor’s not wearing it when he emerges from the house. He’s coyly holding the hat in front of him. Hank can sense a giddy pride as Connor dons it to complete the ensemble.

“A witch.” Hank knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but Connor looks fucking cosmic. He’s sure Connor knows it, too. Hank soaks in the sight of the sheer, black top, covering but not obscuring Connor’s slim figure with a strappy, little crop top underneath. A thin stripe of skin shows where the shirt stops in a scalloped line and the high waist of his pants begin. Hank thinks that he can see a freckle right between where two of Connor’s ribs might be, but he can’t quite tell through the thin tulle.

His long legs are patterned with familiar black and striped tights under his little, black shorts. And converse. Which Hank thinks is a fucking adorable touch.

“You look amazing, Con.” The words just slips out in a huff at such a breathtaking sight. Connor readjusts his hat, and Hank notices the fingerless gloves, showing off Connor’s new nail polish in the process. Hank can see himself sliding his palms over Connor’s hips as Connor steps closer, imaginary fingers pressing into Connor’s sides. Hank’s hands itch to touch.

“Thanks,” Connor says, smile twitching on his face a moment before he asks, “Where’s your costume?”

Hank unzips his leather jacket with a comically dramatic flair to reveal his t-shirt. He gives Connor a moment to read it and waits for the laughter. Doesn’t happen. In fact, Connor says nothing until Hank finds himself needing to break the silence.

“It’s a joke.”

“Oh,” Connor acknowledges but still doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t seem upset at all but there’s something perturbed in his expression. “Right.”

“You don’t think it’s funny? Like I could ever pull off what you’re wearing,” Hank says with a self defeated scoff.

“That involves caring.” Connor rolls his eyes, all prissy. “Come on, or we’ll be later than we already are.”

There’s a sense of normalcy in Connor ribbing him like this, but something is off in the air. Hank can’t quite put his finger on it. A discordant note that sneaks in among the excited buzz.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and tries not to dwell too deeply on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we are all growing very impatient with Hank and trust us when we say that no one is more so than Connor. The timer on his patience is about to run out lol. XD
> 
> Connor's costume was inspired in part by [defensetrain](https://twitter.com/defensetrain)'s [Witch Halloween Costume](https://defenestratin.tumblr.com/post/179664117782) for Connor from ages and ages ago. Their art is beautiful, as I'm sure you all know. None of the costumes we searched could even compare for inspo.
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr/Twitter @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](https://robocop.tumblr.com)/ [malmao (@pansexualraptor)](https://twitter.com/malmao3) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)/[Tsundere Hank (@asbestosheaven)](https://twitter.com/asbestosheaven)!


	10. Part I, October 28th 2028 (Connor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we had hoped this would be up last week but that just didn't happen! Apologies to the person that I told it would be! I'm so sorry! 
> 
> Before we get into it, we got new art since last chapter, and we feel so so blessed! Please check them out they are gorgeous! 
> 
> [**FreckledShorty**](https://twitter.com/FreckledShorty/) drew Hank and Connor in their costumes from this chapter and the end of last [**here**](https://twitter.com/FreckledShorty/status/1116445472955219968) and I could cry.  
> [ **trademarkhubris**](https://trademarkhubris.tumblr.com/) made us Hank and Connor having their gaming session from Chapter 7 [**here**](https://trademarkhubris.tumblr.com/post/184582185969). Please view it's majesty.
> 
> Seriously tho getting fanart for this is so amazing and we appreciate it so much and if you ever make something that we don't put in these notes, it is almost certainly only bc we didn't see it. So if that happens pls let us know so we can scream about it on Discord.
> 
> Also there aren't really many CW's for this one except:  
> • CW for alcohol use  
> • CW for very, very brief unrequited Daniel/Connor  
> That's it. I think. I hope lol.

**October 28th, 2028**

It isn’t that Connor is upset at Hank, really. At least...he doesn’t think so. It’s simply that he had run over exactly fifty-six scenarios revolving around possible costume choices that Hank might wear, ranging from simple to impractically suave to…Connor’s more intimate taste, and not once had he considered this. A joke shirt of cotton polyester blend that had seen its last wash sometime around when it was shoved into the back of Hank’s closet. Connor can taste the barely perceptible dust particles as he clings to Hank’s back on the ride to Markus’s house.  

He wonders if this is disappointment. This souring, not quite anger.

Hank had seemed rather proud of his choice, however. Perhaps Connor was too hard on him. After all, he did have fifty-six different expectations of him. He squeezes tighter around Hank’s midsection at the thought, and Hank’s body reacts imperceptibly. The costume Simon chose had certainly had the desired effect, and that at least is something to celebrate.

The Manfred house is on the opposite side of the school district from Hank and Connor. Half a district away from Simon. From Connor’s understanding, Carl Manfred—a leading artist in the Neo-Symbolist movement of the past years—is out of town as he often is near the end of the month, and Aisha Bennett—his wife and operatic soprano—is currently residing in Vienna.

Considering his parentage, the fact that Markus even attends a public school instead of something more private and expensive is surprising. Connor gets the impression that there are reasons that Markus prefers not to discuss in casual conversation.

The drive takes 28.4 minutes. Connor doesn’t mind the length of it. Riding Hank’s motorcycle has become a favored part of his routine. The motor of the bike as it glides across the curving roads judders pleasantly through his chassis, and he certainly isn’t complaining about the width of Hank’s broad back against his chest or the outside of his legs along the inside of Connor’s.

Costume or no, Hank does look nice tonight. His jeans are higher quality than usual, hugging the thickness of his thighs with deep blue denim, and either he’d chosen better fitted shirts back when he purchased this one, or he’s gained some measure of muscle, fat, or general mass since then. The stretch of it over Hank’s chest makes Connor want to press his mouth to the collar of the fabric in order to analyze the thread count and chemical composition of the scent that Hank used for the occasion.

Which...probably isn’t a very human way to express exactly what Connor’s feeling.

Hank parks on the curb a little ways off from the lot. The houses on this street are few and far between. Extra privacy comes at a price, it seems, but it’s probably best for a gathering like this one.

Hank dismounts and holds his hand out for Connor’s helmet as he always does, swiftly switching it for the witch hat that’s been stored away and making sure he reshapes the tip to a respectable state.

“It’s a _little_ funny,” Connor tells Hank as he perches the pointy cap back into place on his head.

“Hm?” Hank hums, confused. Absentmindedly, really, Connor notes. His eyes were focused on Connor’s midsection as they had been earlier, pupils dilated by 10%. Connor is torn between being exasperated and seeing if he can get Hank to press him against a nearby tree. Feeling both at the same time is draining.

He settles for answering, “Your shirt.”

“Oh, right.” Hank looks down at his chest like he’d forgotten he was wearing it at all. “Knew you’d come around.”

The corners of Connor’s lips twitch. “You did not.”

Hank rubs the back of his neck and shoves his hands into his pockets as he pushes the keys down deep inside them as well.

The path is already dark, save for the glow of a few street lights that are placed strategically for the Manfred house in particular if the lack of residence close by is anything to go on. The trees and hedges are well maintained, and Connor wonders if they hire a gardener.

Hank whistles as they come around the side of the curved driveway into full view of the house. It’s as large as Kamski’s but entirely different. Height over depth. Architecture style more traditional than modern. Markus must spend a lot of time alone in such a vast house, considering his parents’ lifestyles.

“Always forget how big this place is,” Hank muses. There are a several cars in the drive, many of them in older models that stand out starkly against the rich backdrop of the house.

“You’ve been here before?”

Hank glances over at him, placing a hand on the small of his back to guide him forward. “Uh, yeah. Three times, I think? Twice when I was actually invited.”

“And the other time?” Connor asks to distract himself from the warmth and weight of Hank’s palm.

“Well...I pass for twenty-one pretty easy.” Hank gives a rueful smile. “And bringing booze sort of counts as an invitation, I guess.”

Connor figures he probably shouldn’t feel fond at that admission. The whole thing is, technically, illegal, but it isn’t as though he has any illusions about the current party being a completely sober affair even if he can’t partake in that particular indulgence.  

The porch is covered in Halloween decorations very similar to the ones that Connor saw on his trip to the mall, just with a more cohesive theme. Purple lights are strung up on the overhang in a way that illuminates the fake webbing, framing the front entrance and creating an atmospheric, lavender halo. A sign says, ‘Beware’, in a shifting green glow to the right of the door. There are two jack o'lanterns with luminous, crooked grins on either side of the ramp up to the porch.

(Ramp. A quick search brings up an accident involving one Carl Manfred, leaving the artist without the use of his legs.)

Hank rings the doorbell, and Simon opens it almost instantly. He’s wearing a long, grey sweatshirt that comes off his shoulder with black leg warmers up to his knees and nothing else save for a twisted cloth, forehead headband.

He has a plastic cup in hand, and if Connor couldn’t analyze that it was likely alcoholic on sight, it would be easily deduced by the overly gregarious greeting that follows.

“Connor!” he yells excitedly over the sound of the music echoing from inside the house and flings his arms around Connor’s neck. Simon is not usually much of a hugger with anyone who isn’t Markus.

Markus, who stands just behind him in a black mesh top and blue, sequined jacket that comes out too far on either shoulder due to massive, pointed pads in each of them. Tight leather pants cling to his legs. He gives a pleasant and amused smile.

“Happy Halloween,” he welcomes as Simon pulls back from the embrace, gripping Connor’s hands as he takes in the full view of his costume.

“Connor, you look amazing,” Simon tells him, his enthusiasm palpable at finally getting to see the outfit on display.

“Only thanks to you,” Connor replies. Simon had been so helpful, eagerly sending Connor links and references since their inspiring nail session. He was adamant that Connor dressed to impress at his first Halloween party. It was almost a passion project. Connor knows that he looks good, but honestly he preens at someone so visibly wowed by his appearance.

Connor steals a glance at Hank who is already watching him in turn. Hank’s eyes don’t flicker away in embarrassment as they usually would. He seems emboldened and intoxicated by the energy of the party wafting out the open door. Instead, the corner of his lips tick upward in amusement.

The moment passes, however, when Simon spots the t-shirt beneath Hank’s leather jacket. He is not nearly as good as Connor when it comes to hiding his disappointment. Which is saying something.

“Cute shirt,” Simon says flatly. His tone is polite, but the distance behind a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes reminds Connor—however briefly—of Mrs. Philips.

“Thanks. My sexy cat costume was in the laundry pile, so I had to improvise.” Hank gives that same grin as he always does when he’s proud of something. It just so happens to also be the smile that he uses when he’s intentionally ignoring sarcasm. It’s as entertaining as it is infuriating.

Markus is finally able to usher them inside the wide entry hall, relieving Hank of his coat while Connor takes note of several, empty hooks hanging on the onate walls.

“Had to make the place teenager-proof. Usually we have a whole bunch of art everywhere,” Markus clarifies as if reading Connor’s curiosity. He seems almost apologetic. “Come on. Let’s show you where the party’s really at.”

He guides them down the hall, past the staircase, and the distant music grows louder as they reach the entrance to what Connor can only conclude is the biggest room in the house.

The lights are tastefully dimmed, but everything in the parlor is still quite visible. Connor is sure it must have been a ballroom at some point or at least intended to mimic one. Now, it’s filled with books and exotic decorations, most carefully placed just out of reach on the overlooking railings that are connected to the ground floor by a spiraling, metal staircase. It’s currently closed off from the second floor with an ornate divider.

Tall windows stretch down both levels. Connor can only imagine how bright it must be during the day. Down on one end of the room, a long table is filled with snacks and solo cups all around the centerpiece of a large, cauldron-shaped punch bowl. A nice touch, Connor thinks. Clearly Simon had a hand in the decorating. He sees more cobwebs hanging along the built in bookshelves and a variety of crudely cut jack o’lanterns decorating the edges of the upper railing.

Connor takes it all in, every so often snapping a picture with his own, high definition optical units just in case he feels like posting anything on his IG later. He’s embraced the charm of sharing photos with friends rather quickly.

Connor doesn’t have time for too much contemplation before Simon is nudging him.

“How about we get some drinks? What about you, Hank? Wanna try some of our homemade punch?”

Hank gives a bashful smile as he declines, “Driving. I’ll stick with Coke.”

“Alright. You wait here, and talk about basketball or whatever,” Simon says offhandedly as he tugs Connor toward the food table. “Lend me Connor, won’t you?”

“You look amazing, too, Simon,” Connor tells him as they cut through the room.

“Thanks. It’s an easy costume to disguise, you know?” His smile wanes for a moment. He doesn’t have to spell it out for Connor. He knows Simon’s parents would look at what he’s wearing with scrutiny, and, while Amanda’s reaction to the whole thing was bored disinterest, Connor finds it easy to empathize with Simon in this.

“It’s a great choice. Markus can’t keep his eyes off you.”

This makes Simon perk up almost instantly.

“That was the plan,” he replies as he ladles punch into a cup. “Speaking of costumes, a joke t-shirt, huh?”

Connor tries to resist a smile, but he can’t hold back a small huff of laughter. No wonder Simon wanted to get him alone. He probably couldn’t resist asking about it.

“Admittedly, I wasn’t…prepared for that choice,” he tries, haltingly. He takes one of the bright red cups from the towered stack and pours it full of Coca-Cola. He skips the ice. Hank isn’t a fan of ice in his drinks.

“You’re being _way_ too diplomatic,” Simon scoffs while he tops off his own drink and fills one for Connor before extending it to him. “Here. This’ll help your night, at least.”

Connor puts the drink to his mouth. His tongue is already flaring to life with the information its trying to process in just one sip. It sets him aback for a moment, not ready for the overwhelming amount of spirits.

“Got a kick to it, doesn’t it? See, you’re not the only witch around here.” He gives a little proud smile and fills one more cup with the plastic ladle. “If Hank’s going to be hopeless, you can at least have your own fun.”

“He’s not that hopeless.” Connor justifies. It’s become automatic to come to Hank’s defense. “He really liked my costume.”

“Oh yeah? What did he say?”

“Well...it’s not so much what he said.” Connor’s forehead knits between his brows. “But I can tell he likes it.”

“Like I said, hopeless. Don’t take it too hard, though. At least he put the time in to try. Markus is so busy that I ended up having to pick something for him.” Simon heaves a sigh, and with Markus’s drink in one hand, he raises his own in Connor’s direction. “Happy Halloween.”

Connor takes the cue to tap the rim of his cup against Simon’s with a knowing smile.

It’s early in the night, but a few people have already started dancing in the center of the room as a taxidermy giraffe watches from above. Markus’s parents seem to have a rather eclectic taste, but Connor doubts that the big sunglasses and feather boa are their doing.

Hank is standing with Markus on the opposite side of the room, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. A familiar habit Connor grows more fond of by the day. Markus looks loose with a bit of alcohol in his blood where Hank is tense. Their friendship has gotten much less stilted in the past weeks, but it still isn’t easy. Connor wonders if it ever will be or if their personalities just repel one another like oil and water. Nothing violent or hateful. Just two substances that can’t quite mix.

Connor glances down into the coral color of his punch. Little bits of sherbert float amongst the fruit concentrate and ginger ale and rum. Not to mention other varieties of liquor. The alcohol doesn’t affect Connor, but he wonders if it should. He wonders if the people around him will notice if it doesn’t. He can imagine just how quickly an observation like that might spread into rumor.

Perhaps if he slows his processors down by increments for each drink that he imbibes, he will be able to mimic and even experience for himself a similar result. It won’t be the same. Neither is much else about Connor.

Similar but never the same.

As he approaches Hank, the doorbell rings and calls Markus away from whatever they were discussing. Connor easily slides into the spot that he vacates, passing Hank his fizzing, brown drink.

“Shit, thanks,” Hank says as he wraps his calloused hand around the red, plastic cup. “You didn’t put any ice—of course not. You’re perfect.”

“I try,” Connor replies and takes a long sip of his punch. He changes a few settings manually. Only a little. He thinks there’s a lightness in his head, but he can’t tell if he’s just paying the alterations too much attention. There’s an unmistakable looseness, however, that Connor quite likes.

“Be careful there.” Hank motions towards Connor’s drink with his own. “Simon’s drinks pack a punch. Found that out the hard way.”

“I think I can handle myself, Hank.”

Hank sucks down about half of his soda in one swig before admonishing, “Yeah, yeah. Better not come crying to me when you’re dancing on the table without a shirt and puking on the grand piano.”

Impressive but impossible. Connor doesn’t say so. “Are you speaking from a specific experience?”

Voices crest a bit over the music from the entry hall. North and Simon’s rise above the others with Josh’s rolling low and full underneath. When they come into the main room, Connor feels at least a little better to see Josh in jeans and a polo rather than any costume at all.

North approaches Connor much more quickly in an old pilot’s ensemble. Bomber jacket and aviator hat with goggles. Thick, flat boots and jodhpurs. Her hair is all tucked up into the hat. There’s a pure white scarf around her throat.

 _Amelia Earhart_ , he thinks.

“Oh my god, Con” she says by way of greeting with a wide smile on her face while she gets an eyeful of Connor’s costume. He’s seen that appraising look a lot tonight. Especially from Hank. “Don’t you just look like a wet dream.”

Connor has to tamp down a command for his synthetic skin to display a blush, and he doesn’t know why. He tries to hide any bit of it that might have seeped through with a deep gulp of punch.

“Doesn’t he look like a wet dream, Hank?” North continues to prod. Hank clears his throat.

Simon sidles up next to her with two, oversized syringes that have wide, plastic nozzles in place of needles and are filled with red liquid instead of the pinkish shade of orange that the mixed drink in the cauldron has. Connor doesn’t know where Simon got it.

Simon says, “You’re making him uncomfortable,” as her passes her one.

North rolls her eyes before tilting back her head and squirting the entire contents of the shot into her mouth. Simon does the same, a touch less dramatically. Markus’s gaze drifts across the room, missing the spectacle before Simon pulls his attention back.

“Markus, I want to dance,” Simon commands, more assured in his convictions than Connor can ever remember hearing him before, and pulls at Markus’s sleeve.

“What, already?” Markus laughs, and it’s really the last thing that Connor hears before the two of them run too far into the fray for Connor to dedicate any amount of focus on them. North waves at a group of girls near the alcove on the center, back wall and rushes forward to talk to them with Josh not far behind.

It leaves Connor and Hank alone by the unlit fireplace once again. Well…not exactly alone, Connor supposes. That would be difficult to accomplish in a room filled with people and music that has only just been turned up by exactly six clicks. Everyone is too busy with their own endeavors to care about the rest of the room, though. Or so he hopes. Connor’s drink is already empty save for the cubes of ice that slide around in a few drops of syrup along the bottom.

Hank shuffles on his feet, skin still retaining some hint of a flush from North’s earlier words. “I should’ve mentioned I’m not uh.” He falters. “I’m not great at the whole ‘party’ thing.”

“Your story about dancing on the table shirtless suggests otherwise,” Connor teases in an attempt to brighten Hank’s mood.

“I was just giving a general example, smartass.” Hank gives a gapped toothed grin and shoves at Connor’s arm. He ticks his chin toward the drink table where several other people are gathered. The shots that North and Simon drank are now out in front of the cups. “You wanna try one of those syringe things?”

“They seem dangerous,” Connor answers without any real conviction. The shape of them had alerted some buried system in his coding—perhaps for human assistance or something similar—but he’d felt rather silly for it within milliseconds.

“Nah,” Hank waves off, moving past Connor in the direction of the table. For a moment, he walks backward just to look Connor in the eye as he talks to him. Connor thinks it rather hazardous in this situation. “Just a regular shot in a weirder container. I don’t even think they’re jello.”

Connor tilts his head to the side in a way that he knows always makes Hank’s heart rate kick up a few beats per minute. “Are you suggesting gelatin would somehow make it more dangerous?”

Hank’s eyes narrow in mock seriousness. “Maybe I am.”

“High school parties are beginning to sound like an extreme sport,” Connor muses in a tone that reflects the seriousness that life threatening social gatherings deserve.

“Missing social cues, feeling watched, the constant fear of making an ass out of yourself,” Hank lists. “It’s as extreme as it gets. Hence, the Dutch courage.” Hank gestures towards the table in conclusion.

The punch bowl is almost empty, but Connor would be very surprised if there wasn’t another batch at the ready. There are also very few syringes left. Connor reaches for one of them. It’s lighter than he expects as he hands the shot over to Hank.

“I wouldn’t want to miss out,” Connor tells him. “Would you do me the honors?”

Hank shugs. “Sure. Just don’t ask where I got my doctor’s degree. Open.”

Connor obeys promptly, even sticks his tongue out just enough in anticipation of what it will analyse. Hank doesn’t know this, of course, but Connor hopes that he allows himself to use his imagination.

Connor sees all those familiar signs: Hank’s pupils dilating, his heart rate skyrocketing, a flush rising to the surface of his skin. All the while, he bites ever so slightly on his lower lip as the liquid splashes into Connor’s mouth.

The alcohol percentage far greater than the punch, but processing the sheer amount of sugar and benzaldehyde base to imitate a cherry flavor is what takes most of his attention. Connor feels some of it land on his lips and chin. It’s not until he slides his tongue along the seam to lick it clean that he even realizes the instinct to do so. As a finishing touch, now that he’s slowed those processors a little more, he uses his thumb to clean the remaining sweet liquid on his chin with a deliberate suck.

“Gotta love modern medicine,” Hank quips, breathlessly. Connor can hear a slight shake in his voice before he clears his throat and declares, “I gotta take a leak.”

Hank drops the plastic syringe back on the table and is lost in the crowd with an apologetic smile.

Connor’s eyes linger on the spot that Hank left behind with a deep sigh. He straightens his outfit and makes for somewhere more secluded than the oft frequented drinks area, pushing his way through throngs of classmates. By the time he gets to the stuffed giraffe in the corner of the room, two kids from his Calculus class—or Jedi as they appear to be tonight—have just finished posing for a rather awkward selfie with it and are laughing their way back to the space Connor just vacated. Connor approaches the tall creature and gives it a long look.

“You would tell me if you liked me, wouldn’t you Mr. Giraffe?” he asks out loud, and, while he doesn’t expect it to reply, he does have to stop himself from doing a search on whether giraffes are even nice animals to begin with.

“It’s ‘Doctor’, actually,” Josh cuts in. His voice hovers mere feet away from Connor, catching him entirely by surprise. He blames it on the crowded room.

Or perhaps he should admit that slowing his systems may have more to do with it.

Josh adds, “Dr. Silverman.”

“I had no idea I was talking to such a respected individual,” Connor replies.

“Dr. Silverman isn’t one to brag.”

They share an amused smile before it occurs to Connor that Josh must have overheard his musings. He grapples with the concept of embarrassment.

Josh is first to break the peaceful silence between them. “You were expecting something more elaborate, weren’t you?”

“What?” Connor’s brow knits. “No I think Markus has done a wonderful job with the place.”

“Well, first off, this was all Simon’s effort. He’s a pain at delegating. But, uh, actually, I was talking about Hank.”

“Oh.” Connor is used to Josh’s transparency but has never been at the receiving end of it. “Is it that obvious?”

Josh answers with a small shrug.

“I must seem pathetic.”

“Nah,” Josh denies, easy as can be. “It’s your first Halloween party, right?” Connor furrows his brow at this. He doesn’t recall mentioning that to Josh. “North keeps me in the loop,” he answers the unspoken question. “And she’s kept in the loop by Daniel who’s kept in the loop Simon and so on. Everyone’s secrets always have a few laps around the school.”

Perhaps it’s due to Connor’s tampering, but a note of panic lights up his sensors at the thought of his own ‘secrets’ catching such flight.

“I can understand being excited about it,” Josh continues. He pauses to take a gulp of his drink. He’s barely even a fourth of the way through his glass. “I think Hank is, too, regardless of what he’s wearing.”

“You do?” Connor tries to not let the lilt of hope seep into his tone.

“I mean the fact that he’s here at all is proof enough that he’s trying.”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees. His smile turns to fondness at the thought of him. “He is, isn’t he?”

Josh shifts from one foot to another across from Connor before saying, “His effort’s a little different, but he’s making it.”

“And yours?” Connor can’t help but ask.

“My effort? In North’s costume. You know how hard it is to find the perfect pair of vintage aviator goggles?”

Connor grins at Josh’s comical exasperation, and while he absolutely could know the answer if he wanted to, he chooses to take Josh’s word for it.

“Besides,” Josh continues as he crunches around a mouthful of ice. It’s terrible for his teeth, but Connor figures there are worse things in the world than hairline fractures in enamel. “Some of us are just more comfortable like this.”

Connor rolls his eyes a little, the sassiness that Hank often accuses him of boiling to the surface. “I’m being too mean to him, is what you mean.”

“I never said that,” Josh defends, putting his only unoccupied hand up in surrender. “I just gotta balance out Simon’s projecting is all.”

They talk amicably for awhile, more than just the two of them have chatted possibly ever, before North comes to drag Josh away. Hank is still mysteriously missing, likely holding up the line to use the bathroom considerably. He wishes he’d come back. It’s…odd. Standing alone in a room full of people.

“Hey,” Daniel greets, approaching him. Connor notes that he may have lowered his processors a touch too much after his last drink of punch, because it takes him a few seconds to distinguish that this is not Simon. Quite a feat considering Daniel is dressed entirely different. A devil. Red horns and a jewel toned vest. Even a cape.

“Oh, hello, Daniel,” Connor finally replies. Did he take too long to say anything at all? Is Daniel looking at him weird? He tilts his head to the side, eying Daniel’s cravat. “I thought you were going to be a pirate?”

Daniel looks down at his own costume, thoughtfully. “Right, um...I didn’t like it. Should’ve tried it on, I guess.”

“Like Simon told you to?” Connor prods at Daniel’s stubbornness.

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Daniel replies with a snort. “Hey you wanna dance or what?”

Connor _does_ want to dance. Mostly with Hank but also just in general the longer that Connor waits for him. Most of the people on the floor look to be enjoying themselves even if half of them lack any sort of rhythm or footwork. It doesn’t seem to bother any of them, even those that are aware of it.

Connor scans the room for Hank once more despite knowing that he won’t find him there. When his suspicions are confirmed, he pushes past the disappointment and smiles instead.

“That sounds fun.”

Daniel is a bit stiff for dancing. He seems uncomfortable with moving his body and looks at a loss when it comes to knowing what to do with his arms. Connor has to take him by both shoulders and jostle him just a little in encouragement. Daniel actually smiles for once at that. It sits unpracticed on his face, but it makes him look so much lighter that Connor is surprised he doesn’t float away. He’s quick to pick up the flow after that.

There’s something pleasant about the way that the music vibrates along the seams of Connor’s chassis. He doesn’t think that there’s any level of lowered processing that could completely imitate the effects of alcohol on a human body. There will be no vomiting or amnesia. His skin won’t flush pink of its own accord. There is, however, a pleasant numbness. Certain faculties that would normally take up a good portion of his thinking have fallen to the background. Not forgotten but laid to rest so that Connor’s mind can focus on one singular moment.

North slides behind Connor in a way that might be a sexual or some measure of romantic advance in another context. Not in this one, though. It seems to bolster Daniel’s courage enough for him to draw closer as well until Connor can smell a mixture of North’s fruity body spray mixing with whatever boyish scent Daniel spritzed on just a hair too heavily. They aren’t the person he wants to dance with, but he is enjoying himself. Getting lost in thoughtless movement while wrapped in warmth.

The song switches to something slower, and Connor can see Daniel gearing up to pull him in when he catches sight of Hank lingering awkwardly by the drink table.

Connor moves for him out of instinct, out of impulse. His body jerks to a stop as Daniel grasps unexpectedly at this upper arm. Connor glances back at the hand on his elbow with brows drawn tight then up to Daniel’s face.

“Come on, give it a rest,” he says, features pulled into something unkind. “Everyone knows he’s not going to fucking _do_ anything.”

The words sting so sharp and sudden that Daniel may as well as slapped him. Connor would have preferred it. His chest feels full of too many mean, hot emotions to parse. He yanks his arm away from Daniel’s grasp.

“What the fuck, Daniel?” Connor hears North hiss as he stomps his way to the punch bowl. Were he human, he thinks that the blood would be roaring in his ears to offer him some respite from their voices as they grow distant. Daniel’s infatuation somehow seems harsher now.

Connor adjusts a couple of small settings and hopes that it isn’t too much.

“Where did you go?” he questions Hank as he approaches. Hank looks almost sheepish at first, but his expression takes a turn as he gets a better look at Connor.

“Hey, you okay?” Hank’s voice has a softness in it that Connor wants to curl up inside and never leave. He glances vaguely in the direction of the designated dancefloor.

“I...I’m fine.” Connor reaches out until his fingers are pinching and tugging at the at the spot where the paint in the ‘m’ sits uneven on the cotton polyester blend of Hank’s shirt. He keeps his gaze focused on that letter. “I wanted to dance with you.”

Hank lets out a single, breathy laugh. Self deprecating. A tinge jealous. Mostly in good humor. “You didn’t need me for that.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to dance. I said I wanted to dance with you.” Connor glances up, determined to make his intentions clear.

The phrasing dampens Hank’s attempt at evasion—much the way it was intended to—as does Connor pressing the palm of his hand to Hank’s chest. He can feel the thudding of Hank’s heart beneath his hand. So much different that reading it on his hud.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Faster the longer leaves his fingers to rest.

Hank clears his throat and tells him, voice rumbling in the cage of his ribs, “Sorry, I uh—there was a line…”

Lie. Connor doesn’t feel like calling him on it.  

Connor is sure that he can hear Hank thinking himself into a frenzy. His eyes dart over to the small crowd of people moving to the music in the room’s center while Markus sets up a drinking game by the windows, a hint of panic in their blue depths. Hank blinks it away with what Connor hopes is determination. Maybe Daniel was wrong, after all.

“Come with me.” Hank takes the hand pressed against chest, wrapping it in his own calloused fingers as he leads them across the room. Connor’s systems are too slow to read the faces pooling around them. They blur into a mass of bodies that moves together like a wave. All except Hank. Connor keeps his focus on the back of his head like it’s a buoy in the fuzzy sea. Almost sure that if he were to lose sight of him, he would lose him for good.

Nothing close to Connor’s catastrophizing happens, and soon enough they reach the opposite end of the room where the giraffe now stands alone with his feather boa nowhere to be seen.

“Hello again, Doctor. You’ve had a busy night, I see,” Connor greets in a cheerfully polite tone. Hank watches him with a cocked eyebrow and something close to a smirk. In a brief moment, Connor registers— _feels_ —something that can only be described as embarrassment. It doesn’t last long, however. Melting at the sound of Hank’s chuckle.

“You’re cute when you’re tipsy.”

“Are you saying that I’m not always cute?” Connor asks and, in a move of self awareness, cocks his head to feign a measure of curiosity that he just can’t pull off when he’s smiling.

“Depends,” Hank replies, faux thoughtful. “You always talk to giraffes?”

“Not, really. Bears, mostly.” The words roll of Connor’s tongue before he can stop himself, and the reaction in Hank’s face is almost immediate. As per usual, Hank quickly brushes it aside. He reaches for the door behind them, lost in the shadow of the bookshelf. Hank pulls something from his pocket that Connor has trouble focusing on with all the outward stimuli and manages to unlock the knob with a few twists of his wrist.

“In here,” Hank whispers, wearing a smile that Connor can’t recall ever seeing on him. Mischievous. Connor likes it.

“We can’t go in there,” he hisses back, giddy to see the other side but concerned over the potential breach of trust. “It’s off limits for the party.”

“It’s fine. Markus said we could.”

Another lie. Again, Connor debates whether to call him out or play along. Hank takes his hand again and pulls him closer as they slide together through the small crack in the door. Connor scans to make sure they’ve gone unnoticed before carefully shutting the door behind them.

The studio lies still and dark save for the pale moonlight pouring through the large, glass wall at the far end of the room and the sound of the music drifting lazily through the walls.

Even with his input slowed, it doesn’t take long for Connor to assess the area. Stacks of canvas, varying in size, are propped against all surfaces the room. Brushes, stored in paint splattered jars, are scattered across shelves and stacked in an industrially sized sink. The smell of turpentine lingers in the air.

“This is Carl Manfred’s studio,” Connor gasps.

“Cool, huh?” Hank reaches for his phone and soon the glare from the little flashlight bounces off the floor. He leads them between shelves and art projects covered with sheets like unfinished ghosts.

Connor’s entire focus homes in on Hank’s hand, still gripping his own. On how warm the palm feels against his sensors, how big it is compared to Connor’s delicately sculpted framework. He chooses to say nothing for fear of breaking the spell. He knows well the way Hank can recoil when faced with self realization.

“I don’t get it,” Hank grumbles loud enough to break Connor’s concentration. He’s looking at a large canvas where bright blue liquid drips off an dangling hand. Darker shades of indigo and grey complete what Connor can only conclude, for reasons that he knows he can’t explain out loud, is a rather somber intent.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to ‘get’. The concept seems more abstract,” Connor deflects as best he can, wanting to move on.

“Wow, talk nerdy to me, Con.” It’s hard to tell how sarcastic Hank’s tone is when he’s smiling at him like he wants Connor to continue.

Connor doesn’t. He walks on. Lets his gaze focus past the large windows and into the garden out back.

“You gotta check out their backyard.” Hank guides Connor closer to the glass panes. Beyond lies a pristine display of trees, more bare in the colder months but with the maintenance on them still clearly visible. They circle a small pond, built with fine marble that seems to glow in the low light. “My mom can barely make my dad to mow the lawn.”

“Have you ever been out there?”

“Once. One of those times I was actually invited. Maybe he’ll do something when the weather gets bearable again.”

Connor’s attention drifts. His eyes follow a trailing dust sheet that hangs limply on the corner of another art piece. His legs instantly carry him toward the painting with one brown eye visible. Captivated.

He tugs at the at the loose cloth with his free hand until it pools on the ground. Hank loosens his grip on Connor’s fingers, and Connor squeezes back that much tighter. He can feel Hank’s gaze on the back of his neck, feet halting when his body just brushes against Connor’s shoulder. His chassis tingles beneath the thin fabric of his costume.

On the canvas, a face peers out at them in thick, painted strokes. There are elements of abstraction around one side of the face and into the background with no attempt to hide the medium used. A pink mouth hangs open just slightly beneath a straight nose. Shades of pale blue and red and brown come together seamlessly in a collage of color that somehow fits together to create something...familiar.

“Huh,” Hank speaks up, very near to Connor’s ear. Curiosity lilts his voice. “Sorta looks like you.”

Hank is right, more so than he likely realizes. Kamski _does_ know Carl Manfred, Connor recalls. He wonders…

“He has my Orion freckles,” he says, instead.

Hank’s face turns toward Connor’s profile from the corner of his vision. There’s a smile in his voice. “Your what?”

Connor looks up at him. At his eyes first, already trained lower on Connor’s face, and then down at his mouth.

“On my cheek,” Connor tells him. His voice is softer now. Bass thumps from the room over, and Hank’s pulse in hammering in his palm. “They look like Orion’s Belt.”

Hank’s gaze flits over Connor’s face, far more than he needs to find the string of freckles dotted on Connor’s skin. He lifts a hand between them, fingers skimming across Connor’s cheekbone and leaving trails of electricity in his wake. There’s an impulse to let the synthetic dermis fall away under Hank’s gentle touch, leaving nothing between Connor’s chassis and the weight of Hank’s hand.

He doesn’t. He wants to, but he doesn’t.

“They do, don’t they?” Hank mutters, seeming only half focused on what he’s saying. Or on the freckles in question. His gaze does linger on Connor’s lips, though.

“Yeah,” Connor answers distractedly. “He’s a hunter. In one story, Artemis—”

“Con, you really need to learn when to shut up,” and Hank pushes impossibly closer—

A door slams open somewhere behind them. Not from the direction of the living room, however, and definitely not wood on wood. Metal framing with the slide of insulation usually found on an exterior door. The noise sends Hank jolting away, yanking back his hand and leaving Connor cold in his wake.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks a sharp, unfamiliar voice. Over Hank’s shoulder, a figure walks into view from behind one of the large shelves, thin body wreathed in moonlight. Connor scans his face as he approaches. Leo Manfred. He’s wearing a worn, woolen jacket. Maroon in color. His fingers twitch at his sides. Pupils dilated. He breathes almost imperceptibly faster than the average rate, and there is the faintest redness just around the rim of his nostrils.

 **Connor** (10:43 PM)  
_Markus, we’re in the studio. Leo is here._

Hank turns cautiously, pushing Connor even further behind him. Protective.

“Hey, man,” Hank attempts in a placating voice. “We’re just here for the party. We can go.”

“Fuck,” Leo says, sounding agitated. Not what Connor would have hoped for when talking to someone clearly on some sort of stimulant. “You can’t fucking tell Markus I was here.”

Hank’s brow pulls together in a sincerity that Connor knows is feigned. “We won’t. We’ll just...head back to the party. Have drinks or some shit.”

“Perfect Markus, throwing a party while Dad’s away huh? Fuckin’ figures.” Leo’s jittery now. Working himself up. Easy to do in such a state.

Markus pushes through the door, almost in reaction to his name being spoken, and strides into the room with a stormy look on his face. Leo freezes instantly.

“Leo, what are you doing here?” he demands, and his voice is sterner than Connor has ever heard it.

Hank pushes Connor—still maintaining his posturing protectively between Connor and Leo—back toward the open entrance that Markus just came through as Leo laughs, humorlessly. He motions toward a painting nearby. “You’d be surprised what some people pay for this shit.”

“You need to leave.”

“Or what? You call the cops?” Leo counters as Connor and Hank pass into the main room. The music is still pulsing, and most of the party goers don’t seem to notice the scene over the sound of it. Some are whispering, clearly having witnessed Markus cut a clear path through the crowd. Simon and Josh stand focused at the frame of the studio door. Simon looks worried, his headband held in his fist where his arms are crossed over his chest. Josh has a hand on his shoulder. Nobody notices Hank and Connor.

“Maybe we should go,” Hank says, “in case he does call the cops.”

Connor’s attention snaps back up to Hank’s face. Directly in the eyes this time where Hank’s pupils are far from dilated now. There’s something else in them, too. Something Connor isn’t sure he wants to identify as a cold, wet disappointment settles under his thirium pump.

“Oh...”

“Sorry,” Hank apologizes, softer now. “I know it’s...a little early. You can get a ride from—”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right.” Besides, it wouldn’t be much fun being here without Hank.

Hank shifts on his feet for a moment before moving in the direction of the entry hall. Connor sends Simon a sad wave before following, and Simon returns it, looking even more disheartened.

The air outside has taken on a sharp chill as the earth loses the sun’s heat.  The thumping bass fades by the time they’re a few yards out from the front porch. Hank makes a beeline for street, trampling over the grass in front lawn in his hurry. Connor has to move just shy of a jog to keep up with his long strides.

He tugs off the lock from his helmet and pulls out the spare in few efficient, practiced movements. Connor stills on the curb, arms clutching his own body in a facsimile of shielding himself from the cold. Hank throws one leg over his bike and holds out the bright blue headgear for Connor, glittery sheen finally visible in the street light.

“You comin’ or what?” Hank asks, looking up at him with arm outstretched.

“I don’t want to go home,” Connor replies automatically, something clenching at his throat. Hurt flashes in Hank’s eyes. He blinks it away.

“I mean.” Hank pulls the helmet back to himself. He looks down at into the reflection in the convex curve of it, making it easier to hide whatever expression he’s scared of giving away. “Uh. You can...stay. I’m sure Simon or whoever—”

“No, I don’t want to stay. I just don’t want to go home _._ ”

Hank’s gaze softens in understanding, his posture relaxing. Something is still off—Connor can feel it—but whatever tension had come from that brief misunderstanding oozes away.

“Oh, you don’t want—” Hank stops himself, probably under the assumption that Connor is ashamed of not wanting to see his own mother. Or for his own mother not wanting to see _him._ Maybe he is. “You could come over. Dad’s at some...community thing, and I think Mom and Sally are just watching movies or something. Sal likes you better than me anyway, so.”

“That’s not true,” Connor replies with a grin that says perhaps he knows that it is. He takes off his witch hat in a smooth motion and hopes that it doesn’t leave his hair looking too disheveled. If the way Hank’s eyes dart up to the top of his head is anything to go by, Connor figures it must have been in vain.

When he finally gets his helmet into place and slides onto the motorcycle behind Hank, Hank tenses as Connor wraps his arms around his middle. Connor pulls back slowly, that disappointment curling and wriggling around more urgently now, and opts for passenger handlebars instead. He wonders if all this is as obvious to Hank.

He thinks of Hank’s fingers brushing his cheek and his breath fanning over his face and the feeling of Hank’s hand going the slightest bit clammy in Connor’s own. Hank leans farther forward into the handlebars than is usually necessary as if he’s attempting to avoid the press of their bodies together. The opposition in Hank’s actions causes something heavy to settle in Connor’s abdomen like a stone.

Hank revs the engine and pulls off onto the street.

.

It’s easy for Connor to distract himself during the long, quiet ride across town. The clouds in the sky are fat and heavy but all forecasts say they’ll pass two counties over before the rain comes.

Connor pieces together the evening in his mind, going through that moment before Leo crashed things to a halt. He can recreate down to the last detail the way Hank’s finger brushed against his face. It’s nothing compared to how he felt in the moment. How it felt to have Hank’s body, his heat, drawing ever closer.

His processors are back to full functionality. He’d sobered up—so to speak—back at the mansion, so it’s only fair to use them to recreate the highlights of his first party.

So it means…

He tries to draw a conclusion, over and over again even as the bike starts to pull into the Anderson driveway.

So it means there’s a chance, right? What’s the point of investing so much money into his probability core if Connor doesn’t use it?  

Connor, much like Hank, keeps quiet as they climb their way off the bike. It’s only when they reach the kitchen and find Liv rummaging in the pantry that the silence snaps.

“Wow, Connor. You look bewitching,” Liv compliments, beaming. Connor, as always, greets her eagerly. Hank usually rolls his eyes, but this time he keeps his attention fixed on Connor. Connor notes how Hank’s gaze always seems to trail along the sheer cover over chest.

“You kids have fun at the party?” Sally cuts in. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a blanket. Connor can only assume that the two are getting ready for their movie nights. “You’re home pretty early.”

“Yeah, it was a pretty wholesome shindig. We’re just gonna chill for awhile, right Con?” Hank gestures up the stairs in an effort to hurry things along. Why does Hank want to rush them into his room?

The girls wave them on with a clear look of skepticism as they climb up the stairs.

“‘Scuse the mess,” Hank says as he bursts through the bedroom door and flips on the light. He sighs and rushes over to make the bedding neatly enough for Connor to rest on while he strides across the room, plucking clothes to shove in his closet.

When he’s done, Hank ends up in the middle of his room. His eyes survey his work before they land on where Connor is perched on his bed.

“I’ve seen it much worse,” Connor tries with a reassuring smile. It just seems to makes Hank more nervous.

“God, you’re right,” he replies. A look of horror washes over Hank’s face before Connor can step in.

“You live in this room, Hank. It would be hard to keep it pristine.”

“Bet yours is.”

There’s an urgency clawing at Connor that he doesn’t understand. Something off in the air that he’s trying to balance. “You can come see it and find out.”

“Don’t think your mom would be too happy with that.” Hank laughs, irking something inside Connor like a scratch.

“I would be,” he interjects, not breaking eye contact with Hank until the latter awkwardly clears his throat and signals out of the room.

“Gotta piss,” Hank says briskly. Connor doesn’t know what it’s like to have the use the restroom with the regularity that humans do, but he’s getting a touch tired of that excuse. Hank makes his way into the hall, closing the door behind him, and Connor’s gaze remains frustrated and fixed on the space he left behind for a moment. He lets his focus drift to the bundle of lanyards swinging on the handle of the door. An old but familiar tie sways with them.

Connor hadn’t forgotten about it. He literally can’t. He’s come to accept the idea that Hank has chosen to keep it. He even allowed himself to believe that it was out of sentiment.

He stands from the bed and reaches for it, sliding his fingers along the scale pattern until he’s holding it in his hand. Lost in the endless possibilities of why Hank might latch on to such a thing. The door barely misses Connor as it swings open again, catching Hank by surprise.

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Hank seems to notice the tie then, still between Connor’s fingers from where he slid it off the handle. “Yeah, I keep meaning to give it back.”

“Do you?” Connor asks, looking up at Hank from beneath his lashes. They’re standing close again, and Hank seems to notice.

Hank looks up from Connor’s mouth, distractedly. “Huh?”

“I just mean,” Connor presses the tie to his chest as he narrows the gap between them, “I remember that day fondly, too.”

“You’re drunk, dude,” Hank dismisses with a crack that seems to spread around Connor’s thirium regulator. Hank’s body is tensing, but Connor allows himself to inch closer with measured steps.

“Hank, I’m sober enough to—” he tries to reason, but Hank interrupts.

“You don’t want this,” Hank whispers. His posture slouches now in something like defeat. Connor slows down but persists.

“I do. Do you?” Connor leans up those few extra inches, parting his lips in welcome. Trying desperately to recreate that moment in the studio as it fades further into the past.

“Stop.” Hank’s command is so sharp it freezes Connor to the spot. Ice creeps into the fractures in his chest. “You don’t—” Hank sighs. “I don’t think you know any better. It’s not right.”

The words strike him dumb for a moment and a weak and breathless, “Excuse me?” is all that Connor can muster.

“I know you’ve had a pretty sheltered life, and I was like…the first kid you met. That can leave an impression and—”

“Please stop talking.”

The inside of Connor’s body feels too big for the exoskeleton around it, no matter how malleable some parts have been designed. He tries to identify the specific emotions swelling up to help slow the whirring of his fans. They don’t usually spin at a rate anywhere near loud enough to be heard, but he’s starting to worry.

Frustration seems to be pretty high on his list. Embarrassment is creeping up behind it.

“Look,” Hank starts, seeming to fumble for footing. “It’s not that—”

“Do you want me?” Connor asks, gaze steely as they fix on Hank. Connor can see the shame slowly engulfing Hank. At least he can still look at him, Connor reassures himself.

The silence that follows the question swallows the both of them whole, oppressive and thick like cotton in Connor’s ears. Hank swallows around a lump in his throat. He shrugs, looking down at his shoes and scuffing them a little on the carpet. “Maybe I don’t.”

Another lie. He can’t even look Connor in the eye when he says it. Somehow that makes Connor’s anger distend so much larger than his other emotions, so much fatter than if it were the truth. He’s all hot inside. As if he can’t cool off. As if he’s not functioning correctly at all under the sheer mass of his anger. Whether it’s a design flaw or Hank’s power to test Connor’s limits, Connor couldn’t say.

“You _do_.” Connor’s jaw clenches hard enough to creak. His eyes feel full. “You do, and you’re being a _coward_.”

Hank’s gaze flashes from soft and unsteady to sharp in a blink. “Hey, just ‘cause your mom locked you in the fucking basement or some shit, doesn’t mean you get to call me a coward for not taking advantage.”

That stings so badly that Connor barely even registers the second half of his sentence. The cracking in his chest explodes, the ice inside of the fracture expanding too wide for it to contain. So cold it feels like it could shatter him to dust.

“Fuck. You, Anderson,” he hisses and pushes out the door past Hank before warm, wet tears can start to spill. It’s a ridiculous function. Useless. He wishes he didn’t have it at all.

“Shit, Con, wait,” Hank implores from behind him. Connor doesn’t stop. Hank doesn’t follow.

He rushes down the steps, rounding the banister just as Sally is approaching it. Liv isn’t on the sofa. Did she use the bathroom? Forget her blanket or phone? The possibilities stack up inside of his hud. He just wants them to _stop._

“You okay, hon?” Sally questions, her voice taking on a gentle quality that she hasn’t used on Connor before. It just makes his eyes run that much more.

“I have to go home.” Connor moves around her, acutely aware of the way his cheeks are shining, and wraps his fingers around the cool handle of the door. Oil-rubbed bronze. _Stop._  

“Do you need a ride?”

“It’s not far. Thank you,” he says and closes the front door behind him before he can hear Sally’s response.

The air hasn’t shifted at all since the ride over. Neither have the clouds. They weren’t inside long enough for the world to change, but somehow everything is entirely different just the same. He tries to piece the events together bit by bit. Point by point. Moment by moment. Maybe then he can find the caveats. Maybe then he can figure out what went wrong. There has to be something. What’s the point of being so damn detailed, of having so much work and money poured into him if he can’t even manage this?

“You’re crying,” Amanda states—needlessly, as if Connor hadn’t _noticed_ —the moment she sets eyes on him. He’d so hoped she would be in bed. He’d hoped she would leave him alone.

“I—” Connor falters. “Must be experiencing some type of error.”

“In that case, you should sit down.” She pulls out a chair at the dining room table with some mixture of imposition and intrigue. It’s late, but she’s still _interested._ “I can go through your logs.”

“I was going to go into stasis. I wanted—”

Amanda lifts a thin, arched brow.

Want. Connor doesn’t want things. He can’t want things. He doesn’t want time alone and he doesn’t want a nice time at a party and he doesn’t want Hank.

Connor sits down in the mahogany chair, stiff-backed like the splats behind him, and every touch feels like it’s scraping against a raw nerve.

People want things. Androids don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like. Hank is kind of a hot mess. We're sorry. 
> 
> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Visit us on Tumblr/Twitter @ [roboxcop (Malmao)](https://robocop.tumblr.com)/ [malmao (@pansexualraptor)](https://twitter.com/malmao3) & [tsunderehank (mentalstrainatdawn)](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com)/[Tsundere Hank (@asbestosheaven)](https://twitter.com/asbestosheaven)!


	11. Part I, October 29th-December 2nd 2028 (Hank)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! God first of all you guy's response to the last chapter was so lovely. Thank you guys so much for reading, I feel like that needs to be said more often. 
> 
> Second, this chapter is a little shorter and slightly transitional. You'll also notice, if you've been following this story, that the chapter titles of what we have so far are labeled as 'Part I'. We realized that this story has two very distinct parts, and it just feels right to have this represented in the chapters. Also, we are actually nearing the end of the first part and some big moments so that's definitely a part of it! 
> 
> There's really not much to warn about in this chapter other than some mild intrusive thoughts which are pretty normal for Hank. Let us know if we overlooked or missed something tho.

**October 29th, 2028**

“What did you _do_?”

Hank doesn’t have an answer to give Sally, frozen as he continues to linger at the top of the stairs.

He did the right thing.

_He did the right thing._

He keeps telling himself this, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. He’s never seen Connor that angry.

Sure, he’s steamed now. By Monday, though, he—

“The poor kid ran out in tears!” Sally continues. Liv hovers at the bottom of the stairs, an obvious look of concern on her face. Hank’s head snaps toward Sally as what she said hits him like a dropped shoe.

“Connor was crying?” he utters, voice cracking around the words.

Sally throws her hands up like she can’t even believe he has to ask. “Trying his hardest not to but yeah!”

“Like really crying? How bad?” Hank feels desperate in his questioning, as if knowing the level to which he broke Connor’s heart could be measured in his tears. Trying to assess the damage.

“He was a mess!” Sally replies, and Hank deflates damn near instantly. “What the fuck did you do?”

Abruptly, Hank has reached his limit, full of that boiling anger that feels so familiar to him. It’s the wording. ‘What the fuck did _you_ do?’

“None of your fucking business, Sally!” he explodes. He shoves past her toward his room and slams the door behind him. He stands there in the reverberation of it, resting against the wood. He slides down—slowly, pathetically—until he hits the floor.

Hank’s seen Connor cry just the once, what feels like a lifetime ago. The more he reflects on that moment in the bathroom, the more vivid it becomes. He remembers thinking how fucking sad Connor looked and hating it. Now, there he fucking goes, doing the same thing tenfold like some self fulfilling prophecy. Burning a bridge for fear of it crumbling below his feet. Connor’s right. He’s a fucking coward.

He bangs the crown of his head against the door. Once. Twice.

On the third time he hears a faint scratching on the other side. With a fractured smile, he leans forward just enough to let Kurgan in. The dog slides in through the gap like liquid.

“I fucked up, boy,” he confesses to the poor animal. Kurgan snuffles at his face, able to do little to ease Hank’s shame other than offer a furry shoulder to cry on. Hank squeezes him close before letting go and getting to his feet. He kicks off his shoes and, still otherwise in full Halloween outfit, Hank drops onto the bed, curling under the covers. He pokes his hand out so Kurgan can sniff it.

He really was going to kiss Connor.

Hank can’t remember Connor looking as beautiful as he did that very moment. Quite a feat considering how Connor appears to him on any given day. What little light that there was in the studio bounced off the freckles of glitter on Connor’s cheeks, and his hair poked out of his hat more than usual from the exertion of dancing.

Hank’s self doubt spread fast if given the chance, though. That’s exactly what Leo was. A chance for the poison to burrow and take root. By the time, they’d gotten home Hank was convinced that he was sparing Connor.

Connor’s too good for this, after all. Too good for him. Hank barely has his shit together, and Connor is fresh to the outside world, already blooming with life and potential. Hank just can’t keep up.

What he’d said was too much though, wasn’t it? Too sharp and mean for no reason other than to inflict enough pain to match his own wounded pride. He dreads to think what Markus’s crew will do come Monday.

He dozes off, thinking of all the different ways that he can tell Connor how fucking sorry he is.

The next morning, much to his dismay, he finds Sally at the breakfast table. The moment she notices his presence in the kitchen, she glares daggers.

“What would Meg say?” he grumbles as he opens the refrigerator door.

“Meg’s not here so I can butt in all I want,” Sally retorts, easy as can be. A little ember of frustration sparks to life at that statement. Just because Meg isn’t there to buffer Sally’s need to intervene, it doesn’t mean Sally is entitled to do so.

“Doesn’t work like that.” Hank grabs the orange juice. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of it.”

“You’d better, Anderson.”

“That shit doesn’t work the same when we have the same last name,” he quips, pouring himself a big glass before beginning the hunt for snacks substantial enough to be considered ‘breakfast’.

“Joke all you want, but I’m fucking serious. Connor brings out the best in you, but that doesn’t mean he has to shoulder your bullshit.” She shovels a spoonful of her oatmeal into her mouth. Sally, much like Wade, is prone to rage eating.

“Yeah. Got it. Like I said, I’m taking care of it.” He he grabs himself a pack of pop-tarts, fiddling with the folds. He lets them crinkle in his fingers before turning back to Sally. “He was pretty bad, huh?”

Sally stops for a moment but continues with her meal as she replies, “Looked like he got his little heart broken.”

Something in Hank’s chest cracks like a glow stick under the gentle pressure of Sally’s words. It shouldn't. It’s not like he doesn’t already know most of this in theory, but he swears the sound is loud enough for both of them to hear.

“Shit,” Hank curses. He flops down into the chair across from her at the table, slapping down his mylar wrapped toaster pastry as if it personally offended him. Not like he has much room for it alongside the knot in his stomach.

“What did you even do, Hank?” she asks again, seeing that fissure in Hank’s stubborn walls and squeezing through. “Insult his mom or some shit?”

Hank winces visibly. It strikes strangely close to the heart of the matter.

“Jesus Christ,” Sally breathes, disbelieving. Her spoon clatters into her half empty bowl. “Please tell me that isn’t what you actually did. I was _kidding_.”

“No, I—fuck.” He pulls at the zigzagging cut of the pop-tart packaging. “Sort of? I guess? That wasn’t the shit that bothered him.”

Sally’s brows shoot halfway up her forehead, doubt painted across her face. “You sure about that?”

“Pretty fucking sure,” Hank says and only barely resists rolling his eyes by focusing on his stone cold breakfast pastry as he breaks it open in his hand so that he can look in at the bright blue, probably-not-actually-raspberry filling.

Sally seems to believe him, at least to some degree, and her judgmental gaze softens back toward her breakfast. She picks up her silverware and scrapes against the ceramic of the bowl. The sound sets Hank’s teeth on edge. That high pitched whine, just barely tempered by the gloss on the pottery.

She takes a half sized bite of her oatmeal now that she’s nearing the bottom of it. “...so?”

“‘So’ what?” Hank crinkles through the wrapping of his pop-tart, a touch distracted now. He doesn’t particularly like the raspberry flavoring of most anything, really. Wade usually goes shopping on Sunday evening, and these are the last ones left. They’re Meg’s favorite.

She shrugs. “So what got him so upset then?”

For the briefest of moments, the truth sits sour on Hank’s tongue. He swallows it with the overly sweet, dry pastry in his mouth.

“I don’t wanna fucking talk about this with my sister,” he tells her sharply. Even if he did want to open up about it with one of his siblings, it wouldn’t be with Sally.  

“What? Why?” she questions through a mouthful of sticky oatmeal. “Is it a penis thing?”

“Oh my god.” Hank stands from the chair, sending its legs scraping loudly across the tile in his hurry. He’s not having this discussion. No, thanks.  

“You can’t tell me that you guys haven’t at least done over the clothes stuff,” Sally continues to his retreating back, yelling after him, “You asked for this!” as he hastens through the living room.  

“I’m leaving!” he says in a rush before more visuals can flood his head.

“Whatever.” Hank can hear her eyes rolling around in her own head, a flush on the back of his neck. The usual embarrassment is tinged with something sharp like longing. “You better kiss and make up. Don’t think I can take your moping around anymore.”

He’s not sure how much of that she meant for him to hear—though he’s sure she doesn’t mind him hearing it anyway—but he calls back as he strides up the steps, “Way to be supportive, Sal!”

“Don’t call me that!”

.

**October 30th, 2028**

Hank doesn’t send Connor a text message despite spending a solid hour and a half staring at the last message between them, unsure what he expected to find. It was something simple, letting Connor know that Hank was parked on the curb to pick him up for Markus’s party. Feels like ages ago.

Hank was raised in an age of instant messaging, but his mom always insisted that things like apologies were more deserving than that.

Not that he’s ever listened to her about that shit before. Maybe he’s just making excuses for putting it off.

Sally seems to have forgotten her anger against Hank by the next time that he sees her, though there is some muted fire lingering in the way that she sends him off on Monday. He hopes that means she’s letting it die out. Liv and Wade don’t ask what happened with Connor. They both seem to know that something _did_ happen, but they’re ‘respecting his privacy’ or whatever the fuck. He wishes some of that had worn off on Sally even a little.

A nervous energy claws at his throat as he pulls into the school parking lot, eyes darting across Connor’s usual spots while trying—and failing—to look casual about it.

He isn’t there. Hank doesn’t know why he worried that he might be.

Connor’s not on the curb or at Hank’s locker. He doesn’t appear at all before the first bell in fact, and Hank would worry that he hadn’t come into school today if he didn’t have the distinct impression that he was being avoided.

Simon sits innocuously next to him as Hank slides down into his chair in a manner that may look lazy but is actually intended as a defensive posture. Ready to face a protective friend. Simon barely even glances at him at first, though. His brows don’t sit in an angry tilt on his face, either. He looks lazy. Distracted. Still tired from being up so early in the morning.

“Hey, uh,” Hank begins. A risky strategy but the words spill over his lips like oil. “You talked to Connor today?”

Simon glances up at him as he pulls some supplies out of his backpack. “Not since the party. Why?”

“No reason.”

Thank god for small favors. If he’s lucky, maybe he can vomit his apologies all over Connor’s nice shoes before Markus and Co.—alright, fine, specifically North—find out what happened after he and Connor ditched the Manfred’s place.

He’s starting to get the feeling that coaxing Connor into talking to him might take a little more effort than he’d anticipated, however.

Criminal Investigation. That’s when Hank will know for sure, and he’s already on his feet before the bell marking the end of Speech & Debate has finished its trill. It leaves North—who sits across the room in that period—with little chance to ask him anything about the weekend. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t try though.

“What’s the rush?” North questions.

“Wanna uh…make sure Connor and I get a seat together is all,” he fumbles, clumsily navigating his way out of the conversation through North’s suspicious glare. He’s technically not lying. He can’t help but realize how often that seems to happen these days.

He reaches the classroom with some time to spare, even before Connor, and takes the chance to pick two empty spots together. He waits, his heart skipping up into his mouth each time a student who isn’t the one he’s anticipating enters.

It doesn’t matter how hard Hank tries to look away or act casual, the moment that Connor walks in Hank’s eyes are on him. He’s ready to give a small wave, but Connor stops in his tracks. He takes a seat right at the front of the class—and as far away from Hank as possible—staking his claim by dropping his books onto the wood laminate desk with a pronounced _thud_ that Hank can feel all the way from his spot in the corner.

Shit.

 _This is what you wanted, right?_ the spiteful little voice reminds him. Why else would he push Connor away so brutally if not to keep him at a distance?

He clicks his pen over and over in a frustrated attempt to shut out the edgy teenager in his head.

_Clickclickclickclick._

Quick little snapping noises that attempt to speak over one another in their eagerness but can never quite catch the tail of the last.

He knows the only way to best his thoughts, though, is to prove them wrong.

Hank spends the rest of the class focused on his notebook, writing furiously. Not a single word is about forensics.

 _Connor,_  
_Please let me explain myself._ _  
_ Hank

He crosses out his first attempt almost as soon as he signs it. Connor doesn’t owe him shit.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair and tempting another glance at Connor. Or...at the back of his head, at least.

Hank knows that, somehow, Connor’s aware.

Hank looks down at his notebook again and clicks the pen again.

_I made a mistake._

He crosses that out, too. Seeing the words before him makes it all sound a bit misleading. He’s been so wrapped up in Connor’s feelings that he hasn’t really thought about his own. Was it a mistake? Maybe but it feels disingenuous for him to say so when he isn’t even sure.

He shakes the thought away. Right now, his own feelings are deeply rooted in Connor’s happiness. He needs to set this right before he gets his own shit together.

The lesson goes by at an alarming pace, and Hank tries not to worry too much about having listened to very little. He falters to his feet, shoving his things in his bag as fast as he can.

It’s no use, though. Connor is long gone.

Hank’s heart sinks. Connor actively avoiding him feels like a weight tied around his neck that gets heavier the more he thinks about it. Hank was used to that feeling once. Used to driving people away. This time there’s no bitter, cruel satisfaction in being proven right. There’s no anger in any of this.  

He spends the next class not reaching very far in his attempts to pen something genuine. By the end of it, the most recent page in his notebook is only filled with scratches in black and blue of the one thing left in his rattled brain.

_I fucked up._

_I fucked up._

_I fucked up._

There’s so much he wants to say, but he wants to look into those big, soft, sad, brown eyes as he does it. Even if it twists his heart. Cracks a rib.

He finds himself with less and less of a chance as the day carries on into lunch, however.

Hank decides to give the cafeteria a hard pass, opting instead for avoiding the social dance bullshit of where to sit. Especially with how obvious it is that he’s alone.

He goes against the current and glides towards the library. Somehow, the stacks of books and heavy silence feel like the closest thing to a sanctuary right now. He pushes the door open, noticing with a cursory glance a few students peppered at nearby tables before making his way to the back of the room.

Hank has barely dropped his bag into an empty seat when notices Connor.

His familiar profile and long limbs are leaning on a bookshelf at the far end of the room. Hank’s surprised Connor hasn’t noticed him yet, honestly, but his thoughts soon settle on how fucking sad Connor looks instead.

His instincts urge him forward, but Connor seems skittish enough to sense him coming. The moment their eyes meet, he rushes away like a spooked rabbit at the slightest indication of Hank’s approach.

“Wait!” Hank calls out, only to be left alone in the English Literature section.

He hears the heavy library door fall shut behind of Connor’s retreating figure. There’s something frantic in Hank’s blood in the wake of him.

“Fuck.” His eyes dart around for...something, though he honestly isn’t sure what. “ _Fuck_.”

For all of the desperate thinking and overthinking that he’s scratched into his notebook for the past hours, what he ends up writing is anxious and hasty. He darts back to the table where he’d left his backpack, that electric energy in his tangled veins driving him forward, and pulls out the same, worn notebook from inside.

What he scribbles down is half assed at best, but he just wants an in. He has to say _something._ The possibility of Connor avoiding him like this tomorrow or the next day or the next nips at his heels as he tears the page off of the metal spiral, little bits of paper clinging to the ragged edge.

Jeremy from his Speech class gives a judgmental glance in his direction as Hank tosses the bag over his shoulder. Then again, Jeremy is like that about everything that Hank does. All of Hank’s fucks are narrowed to a singular point without even one left to spare for goddamn Jeremy Baker who stepped on Hank’s glasses in the 4th grade.

He’s not sure where Connor ran off to, and he doesn’t see him settled next to Simon with his hair adorably ruffled from the activity of running away from Hank. Connor won’t be pinned down until he wants to be.

Or at least until Psych but Hank recoils at the thought of Connor not sitting near him there as well.

Instead, Hank moves for Connor’s locker. Connor has to look there eventually right?

He slides the folded, college-ruled sheet of paper into one of the upper slats so that it will fall down on top of Connor’s books instead of getting crushed against their binding.

Just as he hears the paper softly find a home on top of the locker’s other contents, the reality of what he’s just done rushes over him in one massive wave.

“Fuck!” he curses for what feels like the thousandth time today.

“Hank,” he hears Principal Lucy scold from a little ways down the hall. Well, shit. He hadn’t noticed her there.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he replies with a wince, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips when he meets her eye.

He glances back at Connor’s locker, familiar chipped paint around the corners and dial lock taunting him. No turning back now.

.

Hank forgoes eating lunch at all in the end, settling down in his back row seat for Earth Science far too early. No one else is even there save Coach Jimmy. Hank’s leg jiggles nervously underneath the desk. Coach tosses him a curious look, but Hank can’t be sure if it’s because of his premature arrival or the jittery nature of his posture.

Slouching down with his arms crossed, Hank ticks his chin upward in a casual greeting that he hopes is convincing. Nothing to see here, it’s meant to say. Everything is _totally normal._

Whether Coach buys it or not, his gaze drifts back to the screen of his ancient computer.

The minutes seem to pass slower than Hank has felt in awhile. Seconds tick by at an excruciating rate, and it seems like a century has passed before the bell rings for the end of fifth period.

That’s to say nothing of sixth which only seems to drag on longer and more painfully the closer to its conclusion they get.

It does end, though, eventually. Through droning teacher voices and needlessly long strings of questions and students who don’t seem entirely certain what class they’re even _in,_ Hank doesn’t find himself stuck in an unending purgatory of waiting as he’d feared. In fact, for all that it dragged like ages through those previous two hours, it’s suddenly as though the time went by far too fast when the bell rings once more.

Hank has his bag packed long before the class is over, ready to dart out the door as soon as he’s able. He knows the exact place where he and Connor’s paths intersect before traveling on the same parallel route to the last period. It’s become a soft meeting place for the two of them with Connor usually waiting for Hank to one side of the flow. Hank just hopes he can get there before Connor.

Connor catches sight of him first, and when Hank notices that steely gaze on him, he expects Connor to flee once again. Instead, Connor’s chin tilts upward in defiance.

“You are,” he says, smacking the note against Hank’s chest so hard that Hank buckles the slightest bit. That could just be due to his already hunched posture, though.

Hank lifts his hand up toward the piece of paper, fingers just brushing Connor’s where they meet in the middle. Connor draws back abruptly. The words press against where Hank’s heart beats on the inside of his ribs.

 _I’m an ass,_ written sloppily over the impression of so many other words. Better in some cases. Worse in others. The best he could manage in a bind, it seems.

“Yeah…” he tries, slowly. Softly. “Yeah, I know. I’m—shit, I’m really sorry, Connor. I shouldn’t have said...I shouldn’t have said that.”

Connor watches him thoughtfully, clever eyes seeming to peel away all his layers. It’s fine. Hank _made_ him this tentative after all. His eyes linger on Connor’s face with nothing to hide. There’s still some left over glitter clinging to Connor’s cheekbones. Only a few freckles of it that dot his skin, but they catch the light and Hank’s attention all at once.

“You didn’t text me,” Connor replies.

“Well, I mean...I just figured that, uh.” Hank rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He should’ve sent a text to ease his way into this, shouldn’t he? Why does he have to make everything so fucking _complicated_? “If I could be a shithead to your face, I should be able to say sorry that way, too.”

Connor just looks at him. Hank feels like he’s listening to the long whine of a single chord, desperate for that next note to drop in alongside it.

“Which isn’t really what giving you a note _is,_ exactly,” he can’t help but continue, trying not to appear terrified at the thought of fucking this up, “but you kept running away from me like you were scared, so I thought...I don’t know. Maybe it would be a good opening?”

Connor’s posture softens somewhat, brows drawing down into a gentler curve.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time…”

Connor glances down from Hank’s face for a moment, eyes focusing on the space in the center of his chest where Hank has already pulled the note away in favor of tucking it into his back pocket. Connor bites his pretty bottom lip before opening his mouth to tell him, “It’s alright.”

“I crossed a line,” Hank continues anyway. “It was shitty, and I won’t fuck up like that again.”

“Hank, it’s okay. Really,” Connor punctuates, shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “I’m...happy to move on if you are.”

Finally, a small smile blooms on Connor’s face, and—wan and tentative as it is—Hank can feel his worries unravel within his gut. It’s almost physically liberating to have Connor even talk to him again.

“C.I. was lonely without you.” The words come out quieter than Hank intended, but he dares a grin in Connor’s direction.

Connor’s eyes dart away in some measure of avoidance as he moves in the direction of the classroom doorway. “Preparing for the test will give us plenty of time to catch up.”

“What test?”

“Good one,” Connor replies with an innocent chuckle as he walks into the Psychology. Hank makes a note to pay more attention. Or any, for that matter.

.

The last period after a long day can have a sluggish effect on Hank’s perception of time, but today he’s too distracted to notice. North keeps stealing glances at him while Connor doesn’t look at him at all, and Hank spends the last half hour reminding himself that everything is _fine._

When the day is finally over, Hank barely has his things in his bag before he’s focusing his attention back on Connor.

“Wanna come back to my place today? We can give Kurgan a walk?” Hank asks. He knows it must sound a little desperate to throw his dog in as an offering just because he needs that reassurance. He doesn’t care. He just wants to know if things can be normal again.

“That sounds great, but not today.” Connor sounds and even _looks_ apologetic but the sinking feeling in Hank’s stomach still doesn’t go away. “Sorry. Send Kurgan my love, though.”

“Oh, yeah!” Hank replies, a little too enthusiastically. “No problem. I sure will.”

“And study for the test.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on me.” He means for it to sound quippy and humorous, but heartfelt gratitude tumbles out of him before he can think about it. He realizes now, however, that it only serves to make Connor look vaguely uncomfortable.

He still gives a friendly goodbye from their usual spot. Connor even makes sure to let him know of traffic issues on his way home, but it takes the whole ride for Hank to shake off the feeling that he’s lost something.

.

**October 31st to December 2nd, 2028**

That feeling takes root in the weeks to come. Hank tries not to notice. After all, Connor still sasses him. (“You need to learn better note-taking.”) He still encourages him when Hank gets down on himself. (“Coach Jimmy wouldn’t allow the other players to tease you Hank, and I think they’d be too scared of you even if he did.”) He still voices his concern over Hank’s lunch. (“Hank, don’t tell me last night’s burger is your lunch. Please.”)

They do their best to not linger in the cafeteria whenever possible. Hank wonders if Connor is avoiding the rest of the gang as much as he is. Neither of them shared what happened that Halloween to anyone. Spares them any rumors. Hank doesn’t like the thought of Connor’s name being dragged around like that.

Connor had posted photos and videos that he’d taken at the party to IG which delighted Simon, and Markus wasn’t keen on discussing how the evening ended anyway.

The whole event seemed more than happy to slip silently into the past.

Hank and Connor end up making the library their new getaway. It’s quiet and warm especially in the coming winter, the compulsory silence keeping something between them at bay.

Thanksgiving Break drives a cold knife between Hank’s ribs. He attempts to convince himself that he’s too distracted by the boisterous energy of both the Anderson and Hartstein dinners to notice the strange stillness of his phone.

He doesn’t eat as much on either day as his belly is already half full of worry. He stuffs himself with cranberry and mashed potatoes and casserole and turkey. There’s ham, too, in the Anderson’s case, because Grandpa Wade and Aunt Sylvia think turkey tastes like wet paper towels. Liv doesn’t partake and neither does Hank. He thinks he sees Sally sneak some while their mom isn’t looking.

Still though, Hank doesn’t gorge himself to the point of loosening a notch on his belt like he usually does. He certainly can’t bring himself to fall into a lazy, turkey induced coma on the plush sofa while football plays on television. He checks his phone, instead.

Connor messages him at a few points over the five day weekend, but it’s not nearly as frequent as it was before Halloween. Connor’s replies used to be so quick that it baffled Hank, even as someone who grew up texting. Now they’re listless.

Pedro and he have started messaging a little since Pedro’s comment on Hank picking up basketball again, and as much as Hank enjoys it, he almost resents every time that Pedro’s name lights up the screen instead of Connor’s.

School starts back up, if only for a few weeks before Winter Break, and Hank can almost forget the uneasiness that had settled into him over Thanksgiving.

Connor hasn’t come over to his house once since the fight, but he cheers for Hank during basketball. Be it practice or a game, he’s there. Practically in the same spot every time.

Today is no different. This time Simon stands next to him, cheering for the team while waving a school colored scarf that he’s often seen wearing this time of year. They’ve reached December, and the chill from the lake comes in at freezing temperatures. Hank thanks his lucky stars as he wipes the sweat from his brow for being inside.

He can’t let his thoughts linger for too long, though. He’d forgotten how fast paced basketball can be. Markus has only gotten quicker since Hank last played alongside him, and each time he slams another two pointer, Hank can hear Simon whooping with pride. Hank tries his best to not freak out when Connor does the same when Hank scores.

Still, there’s something comforting about Connor not being embarrassed. Shamelessly Hank’s friend even after everything.

The game is a close one, but Markus ends up winning the night with two rather dramatic three pointers in a row. Simon is absolutely beaming by the time Hank and him are out of the locker rooms.

“You were amazing! Wasn’t he amazing?” Simon proclaims, looking over at Hank as he makes his way to Connor’s side.

“Star player if you ask me,” Hank agrees, hitching his bag onto his shoulder, and he means it.

“It’s teamwork, Hank,” Markus, ever the diplomat, corrects after Simon steals a few, smacking kisses. “Besides you kicked serious ass out there”

“He’s right, you know?” Connor chimes in. Soft around the edges, looking up at Hank through thick lashes.  

“Yeah but you’re biased, Connor.” Simon cocks his head. For a moment, he has the hint of a sly grin. “You’re always cheering for Hank, anyway.”

There’s a moment of silence that lingers in the air, and Hank tries his best to fight the creeping blush at the realization that others have noticed, too.

“He’s the one who’s improved the most and the fastest,” Connor justifies. He seems more uncomfortable than he did before. Back when he would blatantly flaunt his flirtations and attachments—any discomfort coming from bashfulness—and Hank was foolish enough to think that Connor was too naive to know what he was doing. It’s only in the lack of it, in the change of demeanor, that Hank’s beginning to see how ridiculous it had been to assume such a thing.

Hank replies, “Thanks, Con,” with a gentleness to his tone that Connor seems to fluster under. Hank wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes he could have the same comfort in the blanket of Hank’s voice that he used to. He wishes…

 _You fucked it up,_ that voice in his head says again. _You could have had more, but you fucked it up._

Markus, unaware or uncaring, slings a still sweaty arm around Simon’s shoulders, and Simon wrinkles his nose. He shoves playfully at Markus’s chest before leaving that arm to rest against the back of his neck. He reaches up, knitting his fingers with the hand that dangles there.

Connor stands an appropriate foot way from Hank with his hands to himself.

“Oh, by the way,” Markus begins as Simon waves up to someone in the stands. “Josh is throwing a birthday thing for me in one of the art studios next weekend. Going for something quiet this time, I think. Daniel’s busy, so it’s just the four of us. Wanna join?”

Hank shrugs. “Sounds fun.”

“I’ll have to make sure it’s alright,” Connor disclaims, as always, “but I’d like to.”

“Let me know,” Markus tells them brightly as Simon tugs at him, pulling them both toward someone in the bleachers that’s obscured from Hank’s view.

Some part of Hank’s family is usually present for these games to show support. Sally tends to come the most if only to say hello to familiar faces. Today, though, none of them were free to make an appearance. Hank doesn’t mind. Well...maybe he does. A little. He knows that it isn’t any show of negligence or apathy, so he can’t blame them for the sting.

He gives Connor a ride home in the cold, night air, trying hard not to miss the way that Connor’s arms would wrap around him and cling tight as they glide across the pavement. Now, Connor takes a gentle hold of the passenger handlebars, leaning away from Hank’s body as if his entire orbit around Hank was affected.

Not that he’s been on Hank’s bike much lately. Mainly just on nights that his mom can’t be bothered to come get him from a basketball game.

“You, uh, haven’t come over recently,” Hank braves as Connor pulls off the helmet he’s been using. It’s barely even Connor’s anymore. Hank still takes it to school, hoping to see Connor don it awkwardly on their regular evenings once again. “Was wondering if maybe…”

He trails off, leaving only silence and an implied invitation between them. There aren’t even crickets to cut through the air at this time of year. They’ve all died from frost or migrated or burrowed into the hard ground. Fuck if Hank knows what crickets do in the winter.

“I—I’m sorry, Hank,” Connor replies. Nervous and stuttery. Not his typical bag. He nibbles on the inside of his lip, and Hank wants to be there. Between Connor’s teeth. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His eyes flick up from Connor’s top lip, though the change probably isn’t even noticeable at this distance. His brow furrows. “Uncomfortable?”

“Obviously, I—” Connor looks down at the strap of the helmet in his hands, picking at the stitching. “I want things that you don’t. At least from me.” Hank wonders if Connor is thinking of Robin from what feels like a lifetime ago now. Hank can’t even imagine wanting anyone else these days. He’s forgotten what it’s like not to think of Connor as some extension of himself. He’s been aching from the idea that he might have lost that. “I just hope to avoid situations that might embarrass both of us.”

“Connor, that’s not—”

“I should go inside,” Connor cuts him off before he can offer a word of protest. He passes him the helmet, a barrier between them, with a watery smile. The moonlight and streetlamps glint off of a shine on Connor’s eyes that Hank would like to believe isn’t there at all. “My...mother will probably...worry if I linger too much.”

Hank doesn’t believe the lie for even a moment.

“Yeah, sure,” he concedes, in place of arguing the point. It doesn’t seem right to press. Not when Connor is backing away from him through the wet grass. “I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.”

“See you then, Hank.”

Hank watches him as he walks up the front steps and disappears within the house’s cavernous mouth. He looks up to the window where he knows that Connor’s room is and waits. Waits for Connor’s light to flip on and for his long limbs to wave at Hank from the window as he usually does.

The lamp comes on, glowing in the darkness, but Connor’s shadow never shows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are a writer's lifeblood! ❤️
> 
> Malmao ([tumblr](http://roboxcop.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/pansexualraptor)) & mentalstrainatdawn ([tumblr](http://tsunderehank.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/asbestosheaven))


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